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ANTHONY JOHN 




ANTHONY JOHN 


BY V 

JEROME K. JEROME 

Author of “Passing of the Third Floor Back,” 
“All Roads Lead to Calvary,” etc. 




NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

1923 * 



4 




/ 

y 

Copyright, 1923, 

By DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, Inc. 



PRINTED IN U. S. A. 



VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY 

BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK 


APR 25’23 

©C1A705102 



ANTHONY JOHN 


ANTHONY JOHN 


CHAPTER I 

NTHONY JOHN STRONG’NTH’ARM— 



to distinguish him from his father, whose 
Christian names were John Anthony— 


was bom in a mean street of Millsborough some 
forty-five years before the date when this story 
should of rights begin. For the first half-minute 
of his existence he lay upon the outstretched hand 
of Mrs. Plumberry and neither moved nor 
breathed. The very young doctor, nervous by 
reason of this being his first maternity case since 
his setting up in practice for himself, and divided 
between his duty to the child or to the mother, had 
unconsciously decided on the latter. Instinctively 
he knew that children in the poorer quarters of 
Millsborough were plentiful and generally not 
wanted. The mother, a high-cheeked, thin-lipped 
woman, lay with closed eyes, her long hands claw¬ 
ing convulsively at the bed-clothes. The doctor 
was bending over her, fumbling with his hypoder¬ 
mic syringe. 


2 ANTHONY JOHN 

Suddenly from behind him he heard the sound 
of two resounding slaps, the second being fol¬ 
lowed by a howl that, feeble though it was, con¬ 
tained a decided note of indignation. The doc¬ 
tor turned his head. The child was kicking vig¬ 
orously. 

“Do you always do that?” asked the young 
doctor. He had been glad when he had been told 
that Mrs. Plumberry was to be the midwife, having 
heard good repute of her as a woman of experi¬ 
ence. 

“It starts them,” explained Mrs. Plumberry. 
“I suppose they don’t like it and want to say so; 
and before they can yell out they find they’ve got 
to draw some air into their lungs.” 

She was a stout motherly soul, the wife of a 
small farmer on the outskirts of the town, and only 
took cases during the winter. At other times, as 
she would explain, there were the pigs and the 
poultry to occupy her mind. She was fond of 
animals of all kinds. 

“It’s the fighting instinct,” suggested the young 
doctor. “Curious how quickly it shows itself.” 

“When it’s there,” commented Mrs. Plumberry, 
proceeding with her work. 

“Isn’t it always there?” demanded the young 
doctor. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


3 


“Not always,” answered Mrs. Plumberry. 
“Some of them will just lie down and let the others 
trample them to death. Four out of one litter of 
eleven I lost last March. There they were when 
I came in the morning. Seemed to have taken no 
interest in themselves. Had just let the others 
push them away.” 

The child, now comfortable on Mrs. Plumberry’s 
ample arm, was playing with clenched fists, breath¬ 
ing peacefully. The doctor looked at him, re¬ 
lieved. 

“Seems to have made a fair start, anyhow,” 
thought the doctor. 

Mrs. Plumberry with thumb and forefinger 
raised an eyelid and let it fall again. The baby 
answered with a vicious kick. 

“He’s come to stop all right,” was Mrs. Plum- 
berry’s prophecy. “Hope he’ll like it. Will it 
be safe for me to put him to the mother, say in 
about half an hour?” 

The woman with closed eyes upon the bed must 
have heard, for she tried to raise her arms. The 
doctor bent over her once more. 

“I think so,” he answered. “Use your own dis¬ 
cretion. I’ll look back in an hour or so.” 

The doctor was struggling into his great coat. 
He glanced from the worn creature on the bed to 


4 


ANTHONY JOHN 


the poverty-stricken room, and then through the 
window to the filthy street beyond. 

“I wonder sometimes,” he growled, “why the 
women don’t strike—chuck the whole thing. What 
can be the good of it from their point of view?” 

The idea had more than once occurred to Mrs. 
Plumberry herself, so that she was not as shocked 
as perhaps she should have been. 

“Oh, some of them get on,” she answered phil¬ 
osophically. “Each woman thinks it will be her 
brat who will climb upon the backs of the others 
and that that’s all the others are wanted for.” 

“Maybe,” agreed the young doctor. He closed 
the door softly behind him. 

Mrs. Plumberry waited till the woman on the 
bed opened her large eyes, then she put the child 
into her arms. 

“Get all you can in case it don’t last long,” was 
Mrs. Plumberry’s advice to him as she arranged 
the bed-clothes. The child gave a grunt of ac¬ 
quiescence and settled himself to his work. 

“I prayed it might be a boy,” whispered the 
woman. “He’ll be able to help in the workshop.” 

“It never does any harm,” agreed Mrs. Plum¬ 
berry. “Sometimes you get answered. And if 
you don’t, there’s always the feeling that you’ve 



ANTHONY JOHN 5 

done your best. Don’t let him exhaust you. It 
don’t do to leave it to their conscience.” 

The woman drew the child tighter to her pallid 
bosom. 

“I want him to be strong,” she whispered. “It’s 
a hard world for the weak.” 

Never a child in all Mrs. Plumberry’s expe¬ 
rience had been more difficult to wean. Had he 
merely had his mother to contend with it is difficult 
to say how the matter might have ended. But Mrs. 
Plumberry took an interest in her cases that was 
more than mercenary, keeping an eye on them till 
she was satisfied that her help was no longer 
needed. He put up a good fight, as Mrs. Plum- 
berry herself admitted; but having at last grasped 
the fact that he was up against something stronger 
than himself, it was characteristic of him, as the 
future was to show, that he gave way quite 
suddenly, and transferred without any further fuss 
his energy to the bottle. Also it was characteristic 
of him that, knowing himself defeated, he bore 
no ill-will to his conqueror. 

“You’re a good loser,” commented Mrs. Plum- 
berry, as the child, accepting without protest the 
India rubber teat she had just put into his mouth, 
looked up into her face and smiled. “Perhaps 


6 


ANTHONY JOHN 


you’ll be a good winner. They generally go to¬ 
gether.” She bent down and gave him a kiss, 
which for Mrs. Plumberry was an unusual display 
of emotion. He had a knack of making his way 
with people, especially people who could be useful 
to him. 

It seemed a freak of Nature that, born of a 
narrow-chested father and a flat-breasted, small¬ 
hipped mother, he should be so strong and healthy. 
He never cried when he couldn’t get his own way 
—and he wanted his own way in all things and 
wanted it quickly—but would howl at the top of his 
voice. In the day-time it was possible to appease 
him swiftly; and then he would gurgle and laugh 
and put out his little hands to pat any cheek that 
might be near. But at night-time it was not so easy 
to keep pace with him. His father would mutter 
sleepy curses. How could he do his day’s work if 
he was to be kept awake night after night? The 
others had merely whimpered. A man could 
sleep through it. 

“The others” had been two girls. The first one 
had died when three years old, and the second had 
lived only a few months. 

“It’s because he’s strong,” explained the mother. 
“It does his lungs good.” 

“And what about my weak heart?” the man 



ANTHONY JOHN 7 

grumbled. “You don’t think about me. It’s all 
him now.” 

The woman did not answer. She knew it to be 

the truth. 

He was a good man, hard-working, sober and 
kind in his fretful, complaining way. Her people 
and she herself, had thought she had done well 
when she had married him. She had been in 
service, looked down upon by her girl acquaint¬ 
ances who were earning their living in factories and 
shops; and he had been almost a gentleman, though 
it was difficult to remember that now. The Strong- 
’nth’arms had once been prosperous yeomen and 
had hunted with the gentry. Rumour had it that 
scattered members of the family were even now 
doing well in the colonies, and both husband and 
wife still cherished the hope that some far-flung re¬ 
lation would providentially die and leave them a 
fortune. Otherwise the future promised little 
more than an everlasting struggle against starva¬ 
tion. He had started as a mechanical engineer in 
his own workshop. There were plenty of jobs for 
such in Millsborough, but John Strong’nth’arm 
seemed to be one of those bom unfortunates 
doomed always to choose instinctively the wrong 
turning. An inventor of a kind. Some of his 
ideas had prospered—other people. 


8 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“If only I had my rights. If only I’d had 
justice done me. If only I hadn’t been cheated and 
robbed!” 

Little Anthony John, as he grew to understand¬ 
ing, became familiar with such phrases, repeated 
in a shrill, weak voice that generally ended in a 
cough, with clenched hands raised in futile appeal 
to Somebody his father seemed to be seeing 
through the roof of the dark, untidy workshop, 
where the place for everything seemed to be on the 
floor, and where his father seemed always to be 
looking for things he couldn’t find. 

A childish, kindly man! Assured of a satis¬ 
factory income, a woman might have found him 
lovable, have been indulgent to his helplessness. 
But the poor have no use for weakness. They can¬ 
not afford it. The child instinctively knew that his 
mother despised this dreamy-eyed, loose-lipped 
man always full of fear; but though it was to his 
mother that he looked to answer his questions and 
supply his wants, it was his father he first learnt 
to love. The littered workshop with its glowing 
furnace became his nursery. Judging from his 
eyes, it amused him when his father, having laid 
aside a tool, was quite unable the next minute to 
remember where he had put it. The child would 
watch him for a time while he cursed and splut- 


ANTHONY JOHN 


9 


tered, and then, jumping down from his perch, 
would quietly hand it to him. The man came to 
rely upon him for help. 

“You didn’t notice, by any chance, where I put a 
little brass wheel yesterday—about so big?” would 
be the question. John, the man, would go on with 
his job; and a minute later Anthony, the child, 
would return with the lost wheel. Once the man 
had been out all the afternoon. On entering the 
workshop in the evening he stood and stared. The 
bench had been cleared and swept; and neatly ar¬ 
ranged upon it were laid out all his tools. He was 
still staring at them when he heard the door softly 
opened and a little, grinning face was peering 
round the jar. The man burst into tears, and then, 
ashamed of himself, searched in vain for a hand¬ 
kerchief. The child slipped a piece of clean waste 
into his hand and laughed. 

For years the child did not know that the world 
was not all sordid streets and reeking slums. 
There was a place called the Market Square where 
men shouted and swore and women scolded and 
haggled, and calves bellowed and pigs squealed. 
And farther still away a space of trampled grass 
and sooty shrubs surrounded by chimneys belching 
smoke. But sometimes, on days when in the morn¬ 
ing his father had cursed fate more than usual, had 


10 


ANTHONY JOHN 


raised clenched hands towards the roof of the work¬ 
shop more often than wont, his mother would dis¬ 
appear for many hours, returning with good things 
tied up in a brown-paper parcel. And in the eve¬ 
ning Somebody who dwelt far away would be 
praised and blessed. 

The child was puzzled who this Somebody could 
be. He wondered if it might be the Party the other 
side of the workshop roof to whom his father made 
appeal for right and justice. But that could 
hardly be, for the Dweller beyond the workshop 
roof was apparently stone-deaf; while his mother 
never came back empty handed. 

One evening there drew nearer the sound of 
singing and a tambourine. Little Anthony opened 
the workshop door and peered out. Some half a 
dozen men and women were gathered round the 
curb, and one was talking. 

She spoke of a gentleman named God. He 
lived far off and very high up. And all good 
things came from Him. There was more of it: 
about the power and the glory of Him, and how 
everybody ought to be afraid of Him and love Him. 
But little Anthony remembered he had left the door 
of the workshop open and so hurried back. They 
moved on a little later. The child heard them 
singing as they passed. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


11 


“Praise God from whom all blessings flow, 

Praise Him all creatures here below.” 

The rest of the verse was drowned by the tam¬ 
bourine. 

So it was to God that his mother made these fre¬ 
quent excursions, returning always laden with good 
things. Had she not explained to him, as an ex¬ 
cuse for not taking him with her, that it was a long 
way off and up ever so high? Next year, perhaps, 
when his legs were sturdier. He did not tell her of 
his discovery. Mrs. Plumberry divided children 
into two classes: the children who talked and never 
listened and the children who listened and kept 
their thoughts to themselves. But one day, when 
his mother took her only bonnet from its wrappings 
and was putting it on in front of the fly-blown glass, 
he plucked at her sleeve. She turned. He had 
rolled down his stockings, displaying a pair of 
sturdy legs. It was one of his characteristics, even 
as a child, that he never wasted words. “Feel 
’em,” was all he said. 

His mother remembered. It happened to be a 
fine day, so far as one could judge beneath the 
smoke of Millsborough. She sent him to change 
into his best clothes, while she finished her own 
preparations, and together they set forth. She 


12 


ANTHONY JOHN 

wondered at his evident excitement. It was be¬ 
yond what she had expected. 

It was certainly a long way; but the child seemed 
not to notice it. They left the din and smoke of 
Millsborough behind them. They climbed by slow 
degrees to a wonderful country. The child longed 
to take it in his arms, it was so beautiful. The 
woman talked at intervals, but the child did not 
hear her. At the journey’s end the gate stood open 
and they passed in. 

And suddenly they came across him, walking in 
the garden. His mother was greatly flustered. 
She was full of apologies, stammering and re¬ 
peating herself. She snatched little Anthony’s cap 
off his head, and all the while she kept on curtsey¬ 
ing, sinking almost to her knees. He was a very 
old gentleman dressed in gaiters and a Norfolk 
jacket. He wore side whiskers and a big mous¬ 
tache and walked with the aid of a stick. He 
patted Anthony on the head and gave him a shill¬ 
ing. He called Mrs. Strong’nth’arm “Nelly”; and 
hoped her husband would soon get work. And 
then remarking that she knew her way, he lifted his 
tweed cap and disappeared. 

The child waited in a large clean room. Ladies 
in white caps fluttered in and out, and one brought 
him milk and wonderful things to eat; and later his 


ANTHONY JOHN 13 

mother returned with a larger parcel than usual and 
they left the place behind them. It was not until 
they were beyond the gates that the child broke his 
silence, and then he looked round carefully before 
speaking. 

“He didn’t look so very glorious,” he said. 

“Who didn’t?” demanded his mother. 

“God.” 

His mother dropped her bundle. Fortunately it 
was on a soft place. 

“What maggot has the child got into his head?” 
she ejaculated. “What do you mean by ‘God’?” 

“Him,” persisted Anthony. “Isn’t it from him 
that we get all these good things?” He pointed to 
the parcel. 

His mother picked it up. “Who’s been talking 
to you?” she asked. 

“I overheard her,” explained the child. “She 
said it was from God that we got all our good 
things. Ain’t it?” 

His mother took him by the hand and they 
trudged on. She did not answer for a time. 

“That wasn’t God,” she told him at last. “That 
was Sir William Coomber. I used to be in service 
there.” 

She lapsed into silence again. The bundle 
seemed heavy. 


14 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“Of course it is God that gives it us in a manner 
of speaking,” she explained. “He puts it into Sir 
William’s heart to be kind and generous.” 

The child thought a while. 

“But they’re his things, ain’t they?” he asked. 
“The other one’s. Sir William’s?” 

“Yes; but God gave them to him.” 

It seemed a roundabout business. 

“Why doesn’t God give us things?” he de¬ 
manded. “Don’t He like us?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered the woman. 
“Don’t ask so many questions.” 

It was longer, the way home. He offered no 
protest at being sent to bed early. He dreamed he 
was wandering to and fro in a vast place, looking 
for God. Over and over again he thought he saw 
Him in the distance, but every time he got near to 
Him it turned out to be Sir William Coomber, who 
patted him on the head and gave him a shilling. 


CHAPTER II 


T HERE was an aunt and uncle. Mr. Joseph 
Newt, of Moor End Lane, Millsborough, 
was Mrs. Strong’nth’arm’s only surviv¬ 
ing brother. He was married to a woman older 
than himself. She had been a barmaid, but after 
her marriage had “got religion,” as they say up 
North. 

They were not much to boast of. Mr. Newt was 
a dog-fancier; and according to his own account an 
atheist, whether from conviction or mere love of 
sport his friends had never been able to decide. 
Earnest young ministers of all denominations 
generally commenced their career in Millsborough 
by attempting his conversion, much encouraged 
during the earlier stages of the contest by Mr. 
Newt’s predisposition in all matters towards what 
he called a “waiting game.” The “knock-out” 
blow had not yet been delivered. His wife had 
long since abandoned him to Satan. The only 
thing, as far as she could see, was to let him enjoy 
as much peace and comfort in this world as cir¬ 
cumstances would permit. In Anthony John’s 

eyes the inevitable doom awaiting him gave to his 

15 


16 ANTHONY JOHN 

uncle an interest and importance that Mr. Newt’s 
somewhat insignificant personality might otherwise 
have failed to inspire. The child had heard about 
hell. A most unpleasant place where wicked 
people went to when they died. But his uncle, 
with his twinkling eyes and his merry laugh, was 
not his idea of a bad man. 

“Is uncle very, very wicked?” he once de¬ 
manded of his aunt. 

“No; he’s not wicked,” replied his aunt, assum¬ 
ing a judicial tone. “Better than nine men out of 
ten that I’ve ever come across.” 

“Then why has he got to go to hell?” 

“He needn’t, if he didn’t want to,” replied his 
aunt. “That’s the awful thing about it. If he’d 
only believe, he could be saved.” 

“Believe what?” inquired Anthony John. 

“Oh, I haven’t got time to go into all that now,” 
replied his aunt. She was having trouble with the 
kitchen stove. “Believe what he’s told.” 

“Who told him?” 

“Everybody,” explained his aunt. “I’ve told 
him myself till I’m sick and tired of it. Don’t ask 
so many questions. You’re getting as bad as he 
is.” 

It worried him, the thought of his uncle going to 


ANTHONY JOHN 


17 


hell. Why couldn’t he believe this thing, whatever 
it was, that everybody else believed? 

It was an evening or two later. His aunt had 
gone to chapel. His uncle was smoking his pipe 
beside the kitchen fire, old Simon, the bob-tailed 
sheep-dog, looking up at him with adoring eyes. 
It seemed just the opportunity for a heart-to-heart 
talk. 

He insinuated his hand into his uncle’s grimy 
paw. 

“Why don’t you believe?” he asked. 

His uncle turned on him his little twinkling eyes. 

“Believe what?” he counter-questioned. 

“What everybody believes,” the child answered. 

The little man shook his head. 

“Don’t you believe them,” he answered. “They 
don’t believe any more than I believe. They just 
say it because they think they’re going to get some¬ 
thing out of it.” 

The little man reached forward for the poker 
and gently stirred the fire. 

“If they believed all they say that they believe,” 
he continued, “this world would be a very different 
place to what it is. That’s what I always tell them, 
and that’s what they’re never able to answer and 
never will be.” 


18 ANTHONY JOHN 

He laid down the poker and turned again to the 
child. 

“You’ll hear it all in good time, my lad,” he 
said. “ ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’ ‘Do 
unto others as you would they should do unto you.’ 
‘Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor.’ That’s 
what their God tells them. Do you see them doing 
it?” 

The little man laughed a merry, good-tempered 
laugh. 

“Why, old Simon has got more sense than they 
have.” He stooped and patted the shaggy head 
resting upon his knee. “He knows it wouldn’t be 
any good, just looking at me as though he loved me, 
and then not doing what I told him.” 

He refilled his pipe and lighted it. 

“I’ll believe,” he added, “when I see them be¬ 
lieving.” 

Anthony John liked visiting the tumble-down 
cottage in Moor End Lane. His mother was 
nervous of the consequences. But Mrs. Plum- 
berry’s view was that those who talked the loudest 
are not always the most dangerous. 

“The little man’s got plenty of horse sense,” so 
Mrs. Plumberry argued, “and what Emma Newt 
don’t know about heaven and how to get there, isn’t 
worth trying to find out, so far as I can judge. Be- • 


ANTHONY JOHN 


19 


tween the two of them he isn’t likely to get any 
harm even if he doesn’t get much good. Anyhow, 
he gets a square meal.” 

The dogs were the chief attraction to Anthony 
John. He had never been let to play in the street 
with the other children of the neighbourhood. It 
was in the dismantled railway carriage at the 
bottom of his uncle’s garden that he first tasted 
play. His uncle had taken him in and introduced 
him. There was first and foremost old Simon, the 
bob-tailed sheep-dog. The others came and went, 
but old Simon was not for sale. The next oldest 
inhabitant of the railway carriage was a smooth- 
coated retriever bitch. She had constituted her¬ 
self old Simon’s chief assistant, always prepared 
to help him on the many occasions when riot had to 
be suppressed. It was wonderful how both dogs 
knew the exact moment when fighting in play 
turned to fighting in anger. Then not a moment 
was to be lost. Bess would stand ready, but she 
never interfered unless Simon gave a peculiar low 
bark that meant he wanted her. He had been in¬ 
structed not to call her in if he could possibly do 
without her. 

“Never invite a woman to take part in a row you 
can manage by yourself,” his master had confided 
to him. “Once in, they never know when to stop.” 


20 


ANTHONY JOHN 


On the day of Anthony John’s first visit Bess 
was in a good mood to receive strangers. Her 
four puppies had just reached the fighting stage. 
She was absurdly proud of them and welcomed an 
audience. They fell upon Anthony John with one 
accord. His uncle was watching out of a comer 
of his eye. But the child only laughed and hit 
back at them. There were terriers of all sorts, 
bred rather for brain and muscle than for points: 
their purchasers being generally the tenants of 
lonely farms upon the moors who, wanting them 
as watchdogs and to keep down the rats, preferred 
smartness to pedigree. Mr. Newt’s pride was in 
his bull pups, for which he had a special clientele 
among neighbouring miners. He kept these apart 
in a railed off corner of the carriage, and once or 
twice a week, instead of feeding them separately, 
he would throw a big meaty bone into their midst, 
and then, leaning over the iron rail, watch the fight. 
The dog that most often secured the bone, leaving 
the others hungry, would be specially marked out 
for favour. His uncle, going in among them, 
would pat and praise him; and for him hencefor¬ 
ward would be reserved the choicest food and the 
chiefest care. 

The dogs soon got to know him and would 
welcome him with a joyous rush. The child would 


ANTHONY JOHN 


21 


go down on all fours and would be one of them, 
and together they would roll and tumble in the 
straw. It was jolly to feel their soft paws pressing 
against his body, their cold damp noses pushed 
against his hands and face. There were mimic 
fights when they would tug his hair and bite his 
toes, and he would pull their silky ears and grab 
them by their hair. And, oh! the shouting and the 
barking and the growling and the laughing! 

Life was fine in the long low railway car¬ 
riage where one gave free play to one’s limbs and 
lungs and none were afraid. 

And sometimes for no reason the glorious gam¬ 
bol would suddenly blaze up into anger. The bite 
would sting, and in the growl there would be men¬ 
ace. The child would spring up with a savage cry 
and go for his foe with clenched fists and snarling 
mouth, and the whole pack would be fighting one 
another senselessly and in real earnest. Then in 
an instant old Simon would be among them. He 
never talked. The shaggy head would move so 
swiftly that none knew where to expect it, and old 
Simon would be standing with a space around him 
faced by a circle of fierce eyes. But, generally 
speaking, none cared to break into that space. 
The child would hate old Simon for his interference 
and would punch at him viciously, trying to get 


22 


ANTHONY JOHN 


across his huge body to the dog he wanted to tear 
and mangle. But feint and dodge as he might, it 
was always old Simon’s rump that was towards 
him, and at that he could punch as hard as he liked. 

Five minutes later they would all be friends 
again, licking one another’s wounds. Old Simon 
would lie blinking his wistful, dreamy eyes. 

It had been a slack year. Many of the mills 
had had to close down. Added to this there came 
a strike among the miners and distress grew daily. 
Mrs. Newt took the opportunity to buy a second¬ 
hand tombstone. It had been ordered by one of 
the pumpmen for his mother, but when the strike 
came the stonemason suggested payment on ac¬ 
count, and as this was not forthcoming he had put 
the stone aside. Unfortunately for him he had 
already carved as far as “Sacred to the Memory 
of Mildred,” which was not a common name in 
Millsborough. It happened, however, to be Mrs. 
Newt’s, though on her conversion she had dropped 
it as savouring too much of worldliness, employing 
instead her second name, which was Emily. 
Hearing of the incident, Mrs. Newt called upon the 
stonemason and, taking full advantage of the man’s 
dilemma, had secured the stone for about one-third 
of its value. She had had the rest of the lettering 
completed, leaving to be filled in only the date of 


ANTHONY JOHN 


23 


her death. It was an imposing-looking stone and 
Mrs. Newt was proud of it. She would often go 
and gaze at it where it stood in an out-of-the-way 
corner of the stonemason’s yard; and one day she 
took Anthony to see it. Her only anxiety now was 
about her grave. There was one particular site 
near to a willow tree that she much desired. It be¬ 
longed to a baker Who had secured it some years 
before on learning that he was suffering from an 
intermittent heart. The unemployment among the 
weavers, added to the strike of the miners, was 
making it difficult for him to collect his money, and 
Mrs. Newt was hopeful that an offer of ready cash 
at the right moment might induce him to sell. 

“It’s a sad world,” she confided to Anthony John 
as she stood affectionately regarding the stone on 
which the verse of a hymn had been carved imply¬ 
ing that Mildred Emily Newt had departed for 
realms of endless bliss. “‘Can’t say as I shall be 
sorry to leave it.” 

It promised to be a hard winter for the poor of 
Millsborough. The coal strike had ended only to 
make way for trouble in the steel works. Some¬ 
where the other side of the world the crops had 
failed. Bread rose in price each week; and there 
were pinched and savage faces in the streets. 

His uncle had gone up to the moors to try and 


24 


ANTHONY JOHN 


sell a terrier. His aunt sat knitting by the kitchen 
fire. Little Anthony had come in to warm himself 
before returning home. It was cold in the railway 
carriage. There were not enough of them there 
now to keep it warm. He was sitting with his 
knee clasped in his hands. 

“Why doesn’t God stop it?” he demanded sud¬ 
denly. His knowledge had advanced since the day 
he had thought Sir William Coomber was God. 

“Stop what?” inquired his aunt continuing her 
knitting. 

“The strike. Why doesn’t he put everything all 
right? Can’t He?” 

“Of course He could,” explained his aunt. “If 
He wanted to.” 

“Why don’t He want to? Doesn’t He want 
everybody to be happy?” 

It appeared He did, but there were difficulties in 
the way. Men and women were wicked—were 
born wicked: that was the trouble. 

“But why were we born wicked?” persisted the 
child. “Didn’t God make us?” 

“Of course He made us. God made every¬ 
thing.” 

“Why didn’t He make us good?” 

It seemed He had made us good. Adam and 
Eve were both quite good, in the beginning. If 


ANTHONY JOHN 


25 


only they had remained good—hadn’t disobeyed 
God by eating the forbidden fruit we might all of 
us have been good and happy to this day. 

“He was the first man, wasn’t he—Adam?” de¬ 
manded the child. 

“Yes. God made him out of the earth. And 
saw that he was good.” 

“How long ago would that be?” he asked. 

His aunt was not sure of the exact date. Along 
time ago. 

“A hundred years?” 

Longer than that. Thousands and thousands of 
years ago. 

“Why couldn’t Adam have said he was sorry and 
God have forgiven him?” 

“It was too late,” explained his aunt. “You 
tee, he’d done it.” 

“What made him eat it? If he was a good man 
and God had told him not to?” 

It was explained to him that the Devil had 
tempted Adam—or rather Eve. It seemed unim¬ 
portant so far as their unfortunate descendants 
were concerned. 

“But why did God let the Devil tempt him—or 
her, whichever it was. Can’t God do everything? 
Why didn’t He kill the Devil?” 

Mrs. Newt regarded her knitting with dismay. 



26 


ANTHONY JOHN 


While talking to Anthony John she had lost count of 
her stitches. Added to which it was time for 
Anthony John to go home. His mother would be 
getting anxious. 

His aunt, though visiting was not much in her 
line, dropped in on his mother a day or two later. 
Mrs. Plumberry happened to have looked in for a 
gossip and a cup of tea the same afternoon. His 
aunt felt sure that Anthony John would be helpful 
to his father in the workshop. 

In the evening his mother informed him that she 
and his father had decided to give to him the op¬ 
portunity of learning whatever there was to be 
learnt about such things as God and sin and the 
everlasting soul of man. She didn’t put it in these 
words, but that was the impression she conveyed. 
On the very next Sunday that was he should go to 
chapel; and there kind ladies and gentlemen who 
understood these matters, perhaps even better than 
his aunt herself, would answer all his questions 
and make all things plain to him. 

They were most kind and sympathetic to him at 
the Sunday school. His aunt had prepared them 
for him, and they welcomed him as promising 
material. There was one young man in particular 
with an aesthetic face and long black hair that he 
had a habit of combing with his hand; and a plain 


ANTHONY JOHN 


27 


young woman with wonderfully kind eyes, who in 
the middle of a hymn suddenly caught him up and 
hugged him. But they didn’t really help him. 
They assured him that God loved us and wanted us 
all to be good and happy. But they didn’t explain 
to him why God had overlooked the devil. He had 
never said a word to Adam about the devil—had 
never so much as warned him. It seemed to 
Anthony John that the serpent had taken God as 
much by surprise as he had Adam and Eve. It 
seemed unfair to Anthony John that the whole con¬ 
sequences of the unforseen catastrophe should have 
been visited on Adam and Eve; and even more un¬ 
fair that he himself, Anthony John, coming into the 
world thousands of years later, and who, as far as 
he could see, had had nothing whatever to do with 
the business, should be deemed, for all practical 
purposes, as an accomplice before the act. It was 
not that he argued it thus to himself. All he was 
conscious of was a vague resentful feeling that it 
wasn’t fair. When his mother had sent him out on 
his first errand she had warned him of bad boys 
who would try to take his money away from him, 
as a result of which he had kept a sharp look-out 
and, seeing a couple of boys who looked as though 
they might be bad, he had taken the precaution of 
walking close behind a policeman. It seemed to 


28 


ANTHONY JOHN 


him that Adam hadn’t been given a dog’s chance. 

They told him that, later on, God was sorry for 
us and had put things right by letting His only Son 
die for us. It was a beautiful story they told him 
about this Jesus, the Son of God. He wondered 
who had suggested the idea, and had decided that 
it must have been the little lad Jesus who had first 
thought of it and had persuaded God to let Him do 
it. Somehow he convinced himself that he would 
have done just the same. Looking down from 
heaven on the poor people below, and thinking of 
their all going to hell, he would have felt so sorry 
for them. 

But the! more he thought about it all the more he 
couldn’t understand why God instead of merely 
turning Satan out of heaven, hadn’t finished him off 
then and there. He might have known he would 
be up to mischief. 

At first his teachers had encouraged him to ask 
them questions, but later on they changed their 
minds. They told him he would understand all 
these things better as he grew up. Meanwhile he 
mustn’t think, but listen and believe. 


CHAPTER III 


M R. STRONG’NTH’ARM lay m. It was 

just his luck. For weeks he had been 

kicking his heels about the workshop, 

cursing Fate for not sending him a job. And Fate 

—the incorrigible joker that she is—had knocked 

at his door ten days ago with an order that he 

reckoned would keep him going for a month, and 

then a week later had struck him down with 

pleurisy. They told him that if he kept quiet and 

didn’t rave and fling his arms about, sending the 

bedclothes half a dozen times a day on to the floor, 

he would soon get well. But what was the good 

of everybody talking? What was to become of 

them? This job, satisfactorily completed and sent 

home, would have led to others—would have 

started him on his feet again. Now it would 

be taken away from him and sent elsewhere to be 

finished. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm made pilgrimages 

to the great house, returning with hot-house grapes. 

Mrs. Newt came with a basket. Both she and her 

husband would like to have done more; but times 

were bad. Even believers were in difficulty. 

Mrs. Newt suggested resignation. 

29 




30 


ANTHONY JOHN 


It was the fourth morning after Mr. Strong’nth’- 
arm’s seizure, Anthony, putting on for warmth his 
father’s overcoat, had crept down in the faint dawn 
to light the kitchen fire, his mother being busy in 
the bedroom. He had just succeeded, and a little 
blaze leapt up and threw fantastic shadows on the 
whitewashed walls. Looking round, he saw the 
shape of a squat hobgoblin with a tiny head. He 
moved his arms, and immediately the hobgoblin re¬ 
sponded with a gigantic gesture of delight. From 
the fireplace, now behind him, there came a cheer¬ 
ful crackling sound; it was just the noise that a 
merry old witch would make when laughing. The 
child, holding high the skirts of his long coat, be¬ 
gan to dance; and the hobgoblin’s legs were going 
like mad. Suddenly the door opened and there 
stood the oddest of figures. He was short and bow- 
legged and had a big beard. He wore a peaked 
cap, and over his shoulder he carried a bundle 
hooked on to a stick. Without a doubt ’twas the 
King of the Gnomes. He flung down his bundle 
and stretched out his hands. The child ran 
towards him. Lord how he danced! His little 
bow legs moved like lightning and his arms were 
so strong he could toss little Anthony up with one 
hand and catch him again with the other. The 
little bright flame stretched up higher and higher 


ANTHONY JOHN 31 

as if the better to see the fun. The merry old witch 
laughed louder. And the shadows on the wall got 
so excited that they tumbled down flat on the ceil¬ 
ing. 

His mother called from above to know if the 
kettle was boiling; and at that the little flame 
turned pale and disappeared. The merry old 
witch was as quiet as a mouse. The shadows ran 
up the chimney and the light came in at the door. 

Anthony didn’t answer his mother. He was rub¬ 
bing his eyes. He thought he must still be in bed. 
It was the King of the Gnomes that called up the 
stairs to say that the kettle would be boiling in five 
minutes. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, hearing a strange 
voice, came down as she was. She found her son 
Anthony distraught and still rubbing his eyes. 
The King of the Gnomes was pushing carefully se¬ 
lected pieces of wood through the bars of the grate 
and blowing them with his mouth. He held one of 
his enormous hands in front of his golden beard to 
save it from being singed. He knew Mrs. Strong¬ 
’nth’arm quite well and shook hands with her. 
She looked at him as if she had seen him before— 
somewhere, some time, or else had heard him de¬ 
scribed ; she wasn’t sure which. She seemed to be 
glad to see him without knowing why. At first she 
was a bit afraid of him. But that was all gone be- 



32 


ANTHONY JOHN 


fore the tea was ready. Anthony watched his 
mother with astonishment. She was one of those 
bustling, restless women, constitutionally unable to 
keep still for a minute. Something had bewitched 
her. She stood with her hands folded and wasn’t 
even talking. She might have been a visitor. It 
was the King of the Gnomes that made the tea and 
cut the bread and butter. He seemed to know 
where everything was. The fire was burning 
brightly. As a rule it was the devil to get going. 
This morning it had met its master. He passed 
Mrs. Strong’nth’arm and went upstairs with 
the tray and still as if in a dream she followed 
him. 

Anthony crept to the bottom of the stairs and 
listened. The King of the Gnomes was talking to 
his father. He had a tremendously deep voice. 
Just the voice one would expect from a gentleman 
who lived always underground. Anthony could 
feel the vibrations of it underneath his feet. Com¬ 
pared with it, the voices of his father and his 
mother sounded like the chorus of the little terriers 
when old Simon was giving tongue. 

And suddenly there happened a great wonder. 
His mother laughed. Never before that he could 
remember had he heard his mother laugh. Feel¬ 
ing that strange things were in the wind, he crept 


ANTHONY JOHN 33 

out into the yard and washed himself under the 
pump. 

Three weeks the King of the Gnomes dwelt with 
them. Every morning he and Anthony would go 
into the workshop. The furnace would be still a- 
glow with the embers of the night before. Of 
course the King of the Gnomes would be at home 
with a forge and an anvil. But even so, Anthony 
would marvel at his dexterity and strength. The 
great sinewy hands, that to save time or to make a 
neater finish would often bend the metal to its 
shape without the help of other tools, could coax 
to their place the smallest screws, fix to a hair’s 
breadth the most delicate adjustments. Of course 
he never let on that he was the King of the Gnomes. 
Only the child knew that; and a warning hairy 
finger, or a wink of his laughing blue eye would 
caution Anthony not to give away the secret when 
third parties were around. 

He never went out. When not in the workshop 
he was busy about the house. Of course, when 
you come to think of it, there are no lady gnomes, 
so that accounted for his being equally apt at 
woman’s work. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm had little 
else to do but to nurse her husband; and even at 
that he would take his turn when she went market¬ 
ing; and of evenings, while talking, he would help 


34 


ANTHONY JOHN 


her with her darning. There seemed to be nothing 
those great hands could not do. 

Nobody knew of his coming. His mother had 
taken Anthony aside on the first morning and had 
impressed upon him that he was not to say a word. 
But he would not, even, if she had not told him; for 
if you did the King of the Gnomes at once vanished 
underground. It was not till days after he was 
gone that Mrs. Strong’nth’arm mentioned his visit, 
and then only to Mrs. Plumberry under oath of 
secrecy. 

Mrs. Plumberry, being so often where there was 
sorrow, had met him once herself. Wandering 
Peter the country folk called him. Mrs. Plum¬ 
berry marvelled at his having visited the Strong- 
’nth’arms. It was rarely that he came into towns. 
He must have heard of their trouble. He had ways 
of his own of finding out where he was wanted. 
At lambing time, when the snow lay deep upon the 
hills, they had learnt to listen for his cheery whis¬ 
tling drawing nearer through the darkness. He 
might have been a shepherd all his life. He would 
take the writhing ewes in his two big hands, and at 
his touch they would cease their groaning. And 
when in some lonely cottage man or child lay sick, 
and there was none to help, the good wife would 
remember stories she had heard and, slipping out 


ANTHONY JOHN 


35 


beyond the hedge, would peer with straining eyes 
into the night. And for sure and certain—so the 
legend ran—there would come to her the sound of 
footsteps through the heather and Wandering Peter 
would emerge out of the shadows and would greet 
her. There he would stay till there was no longer 
need of him, doctoring and nursing, or taking the 
good man’s place at the plough. He would take 
no wage beyond his food and lodging. At his de¬ 
parture he would ask for a day’s rations to put into 
his bundle, and from those who might have it to 
spare an old coat or a pair of boots not altogether 
past the mending. 

Where he had his dwelling none knew, but lost 
folk upon the moors, when overtaken by the dark¬ 
ness, would call to him; and then, so it was said, 
he would suddenly appear and put them on their 
way. They told of an old curmudgeon who, but 
for a snarling cur as savage as himself, lived alone 
in a shanty among the rocks. A venomous, blas¬ 
phemous old scoundrel. The country people 
feared and hated him. They said he had the evil 
eye, and when a cow died in the calfing or a sow ate 
her young, the curses would be deep and bitter 
against old Michael—old Nick, as they termed him 
—of the quarry. 

One night, poaching, old Michael stumbled and 


36 


ANTHONY JOHN 


fell to the bottom of a rocky chasm. He lay there 
with a broken leg and the blood flowing from a 
wound in his head. His cries came back to him 
from the rocks, and his only hope was in his dog. 
It had gone to seek help he knew, for they cared 
for one another in their snarling way, these two. 
But what could the brute do? His dog was known 
and hated as far as Mike himself. It would be 
stoned from every door. None would follow it to 
rescue him. He cursed it for a fool and his eyes 
closed. 

When he opened them Wandering Peter was lift¬ 
ing him up in his strong arms. The dog had not 
wasted his voice upon the neighbours. No cottage 
or farm had been wakened by his barking. It was 
Wandering Peter he had sought. 

There was a girl who had “got herself into 
trouble,” as the saying is, and had been turned out 
of her place. Not knowing where else to go she 
had returned home, though she guessed her greet¬ 
ing would be cruel, for her father was a hard, stern 
man and had always been proud of his good name. 
She had climbed slowly the long road across the 
wolds, and the short winter’s day was fading when 
she reached the farm. As she feared, he had 
slammed the door in her face, and creeping away, 
she had lain down in the woods thinking to die. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


37 


Her father had watched her from the house. 
Through the night he had struggled with himself, 
and towards morning had lighted the lantern 
and gone in search of her. But she had disap¬ 
peared. 

It was a strange story that she told when, weeks 
later, she reappeared with her child at her breast. 
She said that Christ had come to her. He had 
golden hair and a golden beard, but she knew him 
to be Christ because of his kind eyes. He had 
lifted her up as though she had been a child; and, 
warm against his breast, he had carried her through 
the night till they came to a dwelling place among 
rocks. There he had laid her down upon a bed of 
soft dry moss, and there the child had been born, 
Christ tending her with hands so gentle she had felt 
no pain. She did not know that she had been there 
for over a month. To her it had seemed but a 
little time. All she could tell was that she had 
been very happy and had wanted for nothing and 
that he had told her ‘‘beautiful things.” One day 
he told her that all was well now with her and the 
child and that her father longed for her. And that 
night he had carried her and the child in his arms; 
and in the morning they came to the edge of the 
wood from where she could see the farm. And 
there Christ had blessed her and the child and left 


38 ANTHONY JOHN 

her. And her father had come across the fields to 
meet her. 

They explained to her it was not Christ who had 
found her. It must have been Wandering Peter. 
But she never believed them. Later, when 
Anthony had grown into boyhood, he met her one 
day on the moors. Her son had gone abroad and 
for many years he had not written. But she was 
sure that it was well with him. A white-haired, 
sweet-faced woman. Not quite “all there” in many 
ways, it was hinted, and yet with a gift for teaching. 
She had her daily round among the far-off cottages 
and scattered hamlets. The children looked for¬ 
ward to her coming. She told them wonderful 
stories, so they said. 

She must have learnt the trick from Wandering 
Peter, Anthony thought. He remembered how, 
seated cross-legged upon the bench, he had listened 
while Peter, when not hammering or filing, had 
poured forth his endless stories of birds and beasts, 
of little creeping things and their strange ways, of 
the life of the deep waters, of far-off lands and 
other worlds, of the brave things and the sad things 
that happened long ago. It was from Peter that 
Anthony first heard the story of Saint Aldys. 

Once upon a time, where Millsborough stands 
today were woods and pleasant pastures. The 


ANTHONY JOHN 


39 


winding Wyndbeck, now flowing black and sluggish 
through long dark echoing tunnels past slimy walls 
and wharves, was then a silvery stream splashing 
and foaming among tree-crowned rocks and mossy 
boulders. Where now tall chimneys belch their 
smoke and the slag stands piled in endless heaps 
around the filthy pits, sheep browsed and cattle 
grazed and little piebald pigs nuzzled for truffles 
in the soft sweet-smelling earth. The valley of the 
Wyndbeck then would have been a fair place to 
dwell in but for evil greedy men who preyed upon 
the people, driving off their cattle and stealing 
their crops, making sport of their tears and 
prayers. And of all the wicked men who harassed 
and oppressed them none were so cruel and grasp¬ 
ing as Aldys of the yellow beard—the Red Badger 
they called him. 

One day the Badger was returning from a foray, 
and beside him, on an old gaunt pony, secured by 
a stirrup-leather to the Badger’s saddle-girth, rode 
a little lad. A trooper had found the boy wan¬ 
dering among the blackened ruins, and the Badger, 
attracted by the lad’s beauty, had taken him to be 
his page. 

The Badger rode, singing, pleased with his day’s 
work; and there crept up a white mist from the sea. 
He did not notice for a time that he and the lad 


40 


ANTHONY JOHN 


were riding alone. Then, drawing rein, he blew a 
long loud blast upon his horn. But there came no 
answer. 

The lad was looking at him with strange eyes; 
and Red Aldys, seized he knew not why by a 
sudden frenzy of hate, drew his sword and struck at 
the little lad with all his strength. 

And the sword broke in his hand; and those 
strange gentle eyes still looked upon Red Aldys. 
And around the little lad there shone a great light. 

And fear fell upon Red Aldys of the yellow 
beard, and flinging himself upon the ground, he 
cried in a loud voice: “Christ have mercy upon 
me a sinner.” 

And the child Christ laid His hands upon Red 
Aldys and spoke words of comfort to him and com¬ 
manded him that he should follow Him and serve 
Him. 

And on the spot where Christ had laid His hands 
upon him Aldys made for himself a dwelling-place 
among the rocks beside the winding Wyndbeck. 
And there for many years he laboured to bring 
peace and healing to the poor folk of the valley, 
learning their needs that he might help them. And 
the fame of him spread far and wide, and many 
came to him to ask his blessing, repenting of their 


ANTHONY JOHN 


41 


evil lives. And he went about among the people 
teaching the love of the Lord Jesus. 

Little Anthony had often passed the great church 
of St. Aldys just beyond the market square, an im¬ 
posing building of grey stone with a spire one hun¬ 
dred and eighty feet high. They say that, forming 
part of its foundations, are the very rocks among 
which once Saint Aldys dwelt, on the spot where 
Christ had appeared to him and had forgiven him 
his sins. 

Having heard the story, he felt a longing to see 
the inside of it, and one afternoon, instead of going 
to his uncle’s, he wandered there. It was sur¬ 
rounded by iron railings and the great iron gates 
were padlocked. But in a corner, behind a mas¬ 
sive buttress, he found a little door that opened. 
It led into a stone passage and down some steps 
into a vaulted room where he fell over a chair, and 
a bat flew out and fluttered silently until it dis¬ 
appeared into the shadows. But he found the 
church at last. It was vast and high and very, very 
cold, and only a faint chill light came in through 
the screened windows. The silence frightened 
him. He had forgotten to make a note of the way 
by which he had entered, and all the doors that he 
tried were securely fastened. A terror seized him 


42 


ANTHONY JOHN 


that he would never be able to get out. It seemed 
to him that he was in a grave. 

By luck he blundered back into the little vaulted 
chamber, and from there groped his way out. He 
closed the door behind him with a bang. He had 
a feeling that something was following him and 
might drag him back. He ran all the way home. 


CHAPTER IV 


T HERE had been a period of prosperity 
following the strange visit of Wandering 
Peter. John Strong’nth’arm came back to 
his workshop another man, or so it seemed to little 
Anthony. A brisk, self-confident person who often 
would whistle while he worked. The job on which 
he had been engaged when taken ill had been well 
finished and further orders had resulted. There 
were times when the temporary assistance of an old 
jobbing tinker and his half-witted son was needful. 
Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, discussing things in general 
with a neighbour, would casually refer to “Our 
workpeople.” That uncle in Australia, or else¬ 
where, who had been fading year by year almost 
to disappearing point, reappeared out of the 
shadows. With the gambler’s belief that when 
once the luck changes every venture is bound to 
come home, she regarded his sudden demise as 
merely a question of time. She wondered how 
much he would leave them. She hoped it would 
be sufficient to enable them to become gentlefolks. 
“What is a gentlefolk?” asked Anthony, to 

whom she had been talking. 

43 


44 


ANTHONY JOHN 


It was explained to him that gentlefolk were 
people who did not have to work for their living. 
Mrs. Strong’nth’arm had served them and knew. 

There were others, who sat in offices and gave 
orders. To this lesser rank it was possible to 
climb by industry and virtue. But first of all you 
must go to school and learn. 

His mother caught him up in her thin arms and 
pressed him passionately to her narrow bosom. 

“You will be a gentleman,” she prophesied. “I 
feel it. I’ve prayed God every night since you 
were bom.” She smothered him with kisses and 
then put him down. 

“Don’t say anything to your father,” she added. 
“He doesn’t understand.” 

He rather hoped his uncle in Australia wouldn’t 
leave them too much money. He liked work: 
fighting with things, conquering them; tidying the 
workshop; combing the fleas out of his uncle’s dogs. 
Lighting the kitchen fire was fun even when it was 
so cold that he wasn’t quite sure he’d a nose on his 
face and could only tell what his hands were doing 
by looking at them. You lit the paper and then 
coaxed and blew and watched the little flame grow 
bigger, feeding it and guiding it. And when you 
had won, you warmed your hands. 

His father had taught him to read during the 


ANTHONY JOHN 45 

many hours when there had been nothing else to do. 
They had sat side by side upon the bench, their legs 
dangling, holding the open book between them. 
And writing of a sort he had learnt for himself, 
having heard his mother regret that she had not 
studied it herself when young. His mother felt he 
was predestined to be a great scholar. She wanted 
to send him to a certain “select preparatory school” 
kept by two elderly maiden sisters of undoubted 
gentility. Their prospectus informed the gentry 
of the neighbourhood that special attention was 
given by the Misses Warmington to manners and 
the cultivation of correct behaviour. 

His father had no use for the Misses Warming- 
ton—had done business with them in connection 
with a boiler. He mimicked the elder Miss Warm- 
ington’s high-pitched voice. They would teach 
the boy monkey-tricks, give him ideas above his 
station. What was wrong with the parish school, 
only two streets away, where he would mix with his 
own class and not be looked down upon? 

His mother did not agree that he would be with 
his own class among the children of the neighbour¬ 
hood. The Strong’nth’arms had once been almost 
gentry. He would learn coarse ways, rude speech, 
acquire a vulgar accent. She carried her way, as 
she always did in the end. Dressed in her best 


46 


ANTHONY JOHN 


clothes, and accompanied by Anthony in a new 
turn-out from head to foot, she knocked at the door 
of the Misses Warmington’s “select preparatory 
school.” 

It was one of a square of small, old-fashioned 
houses that had once been on the outskirts of Mills- 
borough, but which now formed a connecting link 
between the old town and the maze of new mean 
streets that had crept towards it from the west. 
They were shown into the drawing-room. The 
portrait of a military gentleman with a wooden 
face and stars upon his breast hung above the 
marble mantelpiece. On the opposite wall, above 
the green rep sofa, hung a frightened-looking lady 
with ringlets and fingers that tapered almost to a 
point. 

Mrs. Strong’nth’arm sat on the extreme edge of a 
horsehair-covered chair and had difficulty in not 
sliding off it on to the floor. Anthony John, 
perched on another precisely similar chair, had 
mastered the problem by sitting well back and 
tucking one leg underneath him. 

After a few minutes there entered the elder Miss 
Warmington. She was a tall gaunt lady with a 
prominent arched nose. She apologized to Mrs. 
Strong’nth’arm for having kept them waiting, but 
apparently did not see Mrs. Strong’nth’arm’s out- 


ANTHONY JOHN 47 

stretched hand. For a time his mother didn’t 
seem to know what to do with it. 

She explained her errand, becoming almost 
voluble on the importance both she and his father 
attached to manners and a knowledge of the ways 
of gentlefolks. 

Miss Warmington was sympathetic; but, alas! 
the Miss Warmingtons’ select preparatory school 
for gentlefolks had already its full complement of 
pupils. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, not understanding 
the hint, referred to rumours that tended to refute 
this argument. It seemed needful there should be 
plain speaking. The Misses Warmington them¬ 
selves were very sorry, but there were parents who 
had to be considered. Particularly was it a pre¬ 
paratory school for young ladies and gentlemen. 
A pupil from the neighbourhood of Platt Lane— 
the child of a mechanic—no doubt a most ex¬ 
cellent— 

Mrs. Strong’nth’arm interrupted. An engineer, 
employing workmen of his own. 

The elder Miss Warmington was pleased to hear 
it. But there was no getting over the neighbour¬ 
hood of Platt Lane. And Mrs. Strong’nth’arm 
herself, the child’s mother. Miss Warmington had 
not the slightest intention of being offensive. 
Domestic service Miss Warmington had always 



48 ANTHONY JOHN 

held to be a calling worthy of all esteem. It was 
the parents. 

Miss Warmington rose to end the interview. 
And then by chance her eyes fell upon Anthony 
John as he sat with one small leg tucked under¬ 
neath the other. 

The tears were in Mrs. Strong’nth’arm’s eyes, 
and she did not notice. But Anthony saw quite 
plainly the expression that came over the tired, 
lined face of the elder Miss Warmington. He had 
seen it before on faces that had suddenly caught 
sight of him. 

“You say your husband employs work-people?” 
she said in a changed tone, turning to Mrs. Strong- 
’nth’arm. 

“A man and a boy,” declared Mrs. Strong’nth’- 
arm in a broken voice. She dared not look up be¬ 
cause of the tears in her eyes. 

“Would you like to be one of our little pupils?” 
asked the elder Miss Warmington of Anthony John. 

“No, thank you,” he answered. He did not 
move, but he was still looking at her, and he saw 
the flush upon her face and the quiver of her tall 
gaunt frame. 

“Good afternoon,” said Miss Warmington as she 
rang the bell. “I hope you’ll find a school to suit 


ANTHONY JOHN 


49 


Mrs. Strong’nth’arm would much have liked to 
make a cutting answer and have swept out of the 
room. But correct behaviour once acquired be¬ 
comes a second nature. So, instead, Mrs. Strong¬ 
’nth’arm curtsied and apologised for her intrusion, 
and taking Anthony John by the hand, departed 
with bowed head. 

In the street primeval instinct reasserted itself. 
She denounced the Misses Warmington as snobs. 
Not that it mattered. Anthony John should be a 
gentleman in spite of them. And when he had got 
on and was rich they would pass the Miss Warm- 
ingtons in the street and take no notice of them, just 
as though they were dirt. She hoped they would 
live long enough. And then suddenly her anger 
turned against Anthony John. 

“What did you mean by saying ‘No, thank you’ 
when she asked you if you’d like to come?” she de¬ 
manded. “I believe she’d have taken you if you’d 
said yes.” 

“I didn’t want her to,” explained Anthony. 
“She isn’t clever. I’d rather learn from someone 
clever.” 

With improved financial outlook the Strong’nth’- 
arms had entered the Church of England. When 
you were poor it didn’t matter; nobody minded 
what religion you belonged to; church or chapel, 


50 


ANTHONY JOHN 


you crept into the free seats at the back and no one 
turned their eyes to look. But employers of 
labour who might even one day be gentlefolks! 
The question had to be considered from more 
points of view than one. 

Mr. Strong’nth’arm’s people had always been 
chapel folk; and as his wife had often bitterly re¬ 
marked, much good it had done him. Her own in¬ 
clination was towards the established church as 
being more respectable; and arguing that the rent 
of a side pew was now within their means, she had 
gained her point. For himself Mr. Strong’nth’arm 
was indifferent. Hope had revived within Jiim. 
He was busy on a new invention and Sunday was 
the only day now on which he had leisure and the 
workshop to himself. Anthony would have loved 
to have been there helping, but his mother ex¬ 
plained to him that one had to think of the future. 
A little boy, spotlessly clean and neatly dressed, al¬ 
ways to be seen at church with his mother, was the 
sort of little boy that people liked and, when the 
time came, were willing to help. 

A case in point, proving the usefulness of the 
church, occurred over this very problem of 
Anthony’s education. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm called 
on the vicar and explained to him her trouble. 
The vicar saw a way out. One of the senior pupils 


ANTHONY JOHN 


51 


at the grammar school was seeking evening employ¬ 
ment. His mother, a widow, possessed of nothing 
but a small pension, had lately died. Unless he 
could earn sufficient to keep him he would have to 
discontinue his studies. A clever lad; the vicar 
could recommend him. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm was 
gratitude personified. The vicar was only too 
pleased. It was helping two birds with one stone. 
It sounded wrong to the vicar even as he said it. 
But then so many things the vicar said sounded 
wrong to him afterwards. 

The business was concluded that same evening. 
Mr. Emanuel Tetteridge became engaged for two 
hours a day to teach Anthony the rudiments of 
learning, and by Mrs. Strong’nth’arm was generally 
referred to as “our little Anthony’s tutor.” He 
was a nervous, silent youth. The walls of his bed¬ 
sitting-room, to which when the din of hammers in 
the workshop proved disturbing he would bear 
little Anthony away, was papered with texts and 
mottoes, prominent among which one read: 
“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy 
might.” The preparatory education of Anthony 
proceeded by leaps and bounds. The child was 
eager to learn. 

Between the two an odd friendship grew up 
founded upon a mutual respect and admiration. 


52 


ANTHONY JOHN 


Young Tetteridge was clever. The vicar had 
spoken more truly than he knew. He had a clever 
way of putting things that made them at once plain 
and easy to be remembered. He could make up 
poetry—quite clever poetry that sometimes made 
you laugh and at other times stirred something 
within you which you didn’t understand but which 
made you feel grand and all aglow. He drew 
pictures—clever pictures of fascinating never-to- 
be-seen things that almost frightened you, of funny 
faces, and things that made you cry. He made 
music out of a thing that looked like a fiddle, but 
was better than a fiddle, that he kept in a little 
black box; and when he played you wanted to 
dance and sing and shout. 

But it was not the cleverness that Anthony 
envied. That would have been fatal to their 
friendship. He never could answer satisfactorily 
when Anthony would question him as to what he 
was going to be—what he was going to do with all 
his cleverness. He hadn’t made up his mind, he 
wasn’t quite sure. Sometimes he thought he would 
be a poet, at other times a musician or an artist, or 
go in for politics and be a statesman. 

“Which are you going to begin with when you 
leave school?” demanded Anthony. They had 
been studying in young Tetteridge’s bed-sitting- 


ANTHONY JOHN 53 

room and the lesson was over. Anthony’s eyes 
were fixed upon a motto over the washstand: 

“One thing at a time, and that done well, 

Is a very good rule, as many can tell.” 

Young Tetteridge admitted that the time was ap¬ 
proaching when the point would have to be con¬ 
sidered. 

Anthony was sitting on his hands, swinging his 
legs. Young Tetteridge was walking up and 
down; owing to the size of the room being ten by 
twelve it was a walk with many turns. 

“You see,” explained Anthony, “you’re not a 
gentlefolk.” 

Mr. Tetteridge claimed that he was, though 
personally attaching no importance to the fact. 
His father had been an Indian official. His 
mother, had she wished, could have claimed de¬ 
scent .from one of the most renowned of Irish kings. 

“What I mean,” explained Anthony, “is that 
you’ve got to work for your living.” 

Mr. Tetteridge argued that he could live on very 
little. He was living just then on twelve shillings 
a week, picked up one way and another. 

“But when you’re married and have children?” 
suggested Anthony. 

Mr. Tetteridge flushed, and his eyes instinctively 


54 


ANTHONY JOHN 


turned to a small photograph on the mantelpiece. 
It featured a pretty dolly-faced girl, the daughter 
of one of the masters at the grammar school. 

“You haven’t got any friends, have you?” asked 
Anthony. 

Mr. Tetteridge shook his head. “I don’t think 
so,” he answered. 

“Couldn’t you keep a school?” suggested 
Anthony, “for little boys and girls whose mothers 
don’t like them going to the parish school and who 
ain’t good enough for the Miss Warmingtons? 
There’s heaps of new people always coming here. 
And you’re so clever at teaching.” 

Mr. Tetteridge, halting suddenly, stretched out 
his hand; and Anthony, taking his from underneath 
him, they shook. 

“Thanks awfully,” said Mr. Tetteridge. “Do 
you know I’d never thought of that.” 

“I shouldn’t say anything about it if I was you,” 
counselled Anthony, “or somebody else might slip 
in and do it before you were ready.” 

“We say, ‘if I were you’; not ‘if I was you,’ ” 
Mr. Tetteridge corrected him. “We’ll take the 
subjunctive mood tomorrow. It’s quite easy to re¬ 
member.” 

Again he stretched out his hand. “It’s awfully 
good of you,” he said. 


ANTHONY JOHN 55 

“I’d like you not to go away from Mills- 
borough,” answered Anthony. 

The period of prosperity following the visit of 
Wandering Peter had lasted all but two years. It 
came to an end with the death of his father. It 
was while working on his new invention that the ac¬ 
cident had happened. 

He was alone in the workshop one evening after 
supper; and while hoisting a heavy iron bar the 
rope had broken and the bar had fallen upon him 
and crushed his skull. He lingered for a day or 
two, mostly unconscious. It was a few hours be¬ 
fore the end that Anthony, who had been sent up¬ 
stairs by his mother to see if anything had hap¬ 
pened, found his father with his eyes wide open. 
The man made a sign to him to close the door. 
The boy did so and then came and stood beside the 
bed. 

“There won’t be anything left, sonny,” his father 
whispered. “I’ve been a fool. Everything I 
could get or borrow I put into it. It would have 
been all right, of course, if I had lived and could 
have finished it. Your mother doesn’t know, as 
yet. Break it to her after I’m gone, d’you mind. 
I haven’t the pluck.” 

Anthony promised. There seemed to be more 
that his father wanted to say. He lay staring at 


56 


ANTHONY JOHN 


the child with a foolish smile about his loose, weak 
mouth. Anthony sat on the edge of the bed and 
waited. He put his hand on the boy’s thigh. 

“I wish I could say samething to you,” he whis¬ 
pered. “You know what I mean: something that 
you could treasure up and that would be of help to 
you. I’ve always wanted to. When you used to 
ask questions and I was short with you, it was be¬ 
cause I couldn’t answer them. I used to lie awake 
at night and try to think them out. And then I 
thought that when I came to die something might 
happen, that perhaps I’d have a vision or some¬ 
thing of that sort—they say that people do, you 
know—that would make it all plain to me and that 
I’d be able to tell you. But it hasn’t come. I sup¬ 
pose I ain’t the right sort. It all seems dark to 
me. 

His mind wandered, and after a few incoherent 
words he closed his eyes again. He did not regain 
consciousness. 

Anthony broke it to his mother—about every¬ 
thing having been sacrificed to the latest new inven¬ 
tion. 

“Lord love the man!” she answered. “Did he 
think I didn’t know? We were just a pair of us. 
I persuaded myself it was going to pan out all right 
this time.” 


ANTHONY JOHN 


57 


They were standing by the bedside. His mother 
had been up to the great house and had brought 
back with her a fine wreath of white flowers.. 
They lay upon the sheet just over his breast.. 
Anthony hardly knew his father; the weak, twitch¬ 
ing lips were closed and formed a firm, strong line* 
Apart from the mouth his face had always been 
beautiful; though, lined with fret and worry and 
the fair hair grimy and uncombed, few had ever 
noticed it. His mother stooped and kissed the 
high pale brow. 

“He is like what I remember him at the begin¬ 
ning,” she said. “You can see that he was a 
gentleman, every inch of him.” 

His mother looked younger standing there beside 
her dead man. A softness had come into her 
face. 

“You did your best, my dear,” she said, “and I 
guess I wasn’t much help to you.” 

Everybody spoke well of the white, handsome 
man who lay with closed eyes and folded hands as 
if saying his prayers. Anthony had no idea that 
his father had been so universally liked and re¬ 
spected. 

“Was father any relation to Mr. Selwyn?” he 
asked his mother the evening of the funeral. 


58 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“Relation!” answered his mother. “Not that I 
ever heard of. Why, what makes you ask?” 

“He called him ‘brother,’ ” explained Anthony. 

“Oh, that,” answered his mother. “Oh, that 
doesn’t mean that he really was his brother. It’s 
just a way of speaking of the dead.” 


CHAPTER V 


T HEY moved into a yet smaller house in a 
yet meaner street. His mother had always 
been clever with her needle. A card in 
the front window gave notice that Mrs. Strong’nth’- 
arm, dressmaker and milliner, was willing to make 
up ladies’ own materials and guaranteed both style 
and fit. Mill hands and miners’ wives and 
daughters supplied her clientele. When things 
were going well orders were sufficient to keep Mrs. 
Strong’nth’arm’s sewing machine buzzing and 
clacking from mom till night. 

There were periods, of course, when work was * 
slack and bills remained unpaid. But on the 
whole there was enough to just keep and clothe 
them. It was the problem of Anthony’s educa¬ 
tion that troubled them both. 

And here again it was the Church that came to 
their rescue. The pious founder of St. Aldys’ 
Grammar School had decreed “Foundation Schol¬ 
arships” enabling twelve poor boys belonging 
to the faith to be educated free, selection being 
in the hands of the governors. Sir William Coom- 

ber happened to be one, the Vicar another. Young 

59 


60 


ANTHONY JOHN 


Tetteridge, overcoming his shyness, canvassed the 
remainder, taking Anthony with him. There was 
anxiety, alternation of hope and fear. In the end 
victory. Anthony, subjected to preliminary ex¬ 
amination, was deemed sufficiently advanced for 
the third form. Sir William Coomber wrote him a 
note, the handwriting somewhat shaky, telling him 
to serve God and honour the Queen and be a bless¬ 
ing to his mother. And if ever there was anything 
that Sir William could do for him to help him he 
was to let Sir William know. The Vicar shook 
hands with him and wished him godspeed, adding 
incidentally that heaven helps those that help 
themselves. The headmaster received him in his 
study and was sure they were going to be friends. 
Young Tetteridge gave a cold collation in his 
honour, to which the head of the third form, the 
captain of the second division of the football team 
and three gentlemen of the upper sixth were in¬ 
vited. The captain of the second division of the 
football team examined his legs and tested his wind 
and expressed satisfaction. Jarvis, of the upper 
sixth, made a speech in his honour, quite a kindly 
speech, though it did rather suggest God Almighty 
to a promising black beetle; and Anthony was 
called upon to reply. 

Excess of diffidence had never been his failing. 


ANTHONY JOHN 61 

It never was to be. He said he was glad he was 
going to be in the third form, because he did like 
Billy Saunders very much indeed. And he was 
glad that Mr. Williamson thought he’d be all right 
in time for football, because he thought it a jolly 
game and wanted to play it awfully, if Mr. 
Williamson would help him and tell him what to 
do. And, he thought it awfully kind of Mr. 
Jarvis and Mr. Harrocks and Mr. Andrews to take 
notice of a little boy like he was; and he hoped 
that when he got into the upper sixth he’d be 
like them. And he was awfully bucked up at 
being one of the St. Aldys boys, because he 
thought it must be the finest school in all the world, 
and it was awfully ripping of Mr. Tetteridge to 
have got him into it. And then he sat down and 
everybody said “Bravo!” and banged the table, and 
Mr. Jarvis said it wasn’t half bad for a young ’un. 

“Did I do all right?” he asked young Tetteridge 
after the others had gone. 

“Splendiferous,” answered young Tetteridge, 
putting an affectionate arm around him. “You 
said something about all of them.” 

“Yes; I thought they’d like that,” said Anthony. 

He discovered that other sentiments than kindli¬ 
ness go to the making of a school. It leaked out 
that he was a “cropped head.” The founder— 


62 


ANTHONY JOHN 


maybe for hygienic reasons—had stipulated that 
his twelve free scholars should wear their hair cut 
close. The custom had fallen into disuetude, but 
the name still clung to them. By the time they 
had reached the upper division they had come to 
be tolerated. But the early stages were made 
hard for them. Anthony was dubbed “Pauper,” 
“Charity boy.” On the bench the boys right and 
left of him would draw away so that they might not 
touch him. In the playground he was left severely 
to himself. That he was quick and clever at his 
lessons and that the masters liked him worked still 
further to his disadvantage. At first young 
Saunders stuck up for him, but finding this made 
him a sharer of Anthony’s unpopularity soon 
dropped him, throwing the blame upon An¬ 
thony. 

“You see it isn’t only your having come in on the 
‘Foundation,’ ” he explained one day to Anthony, 
having beckoned him aside to a quiet comer be¬ 
hind a water-butt. “You ought to have told me 
your mother was a dressmaker.” 

“So is young Harringay’s mother,” argued 
Anthony. 

“Yes; but she keeps a big shop and employs girls 
to do the sewing,” explained Saunders. “Your 
mother lives in Snelling’s Row and works with her 


ANTHONY JOHN 63 

own hands. You ought to have told me. It 
wasn’t fair.” 

Ever since he could remember there had been 
cropping up things that Anthony could not under¬ 
stand. In his earlier days he had worried about 
these matters and had asked questions concerning 
them. But never had he succeeded in getting a 
helpful answer. As a consequence he had uncon¬ 
sciously become a philosopher. The wise traveller 
coming to an unknown country accepts what he 
finds there and makes the best of it. 

“Sorry,” replied Anthony, and left it at that. 

One day in the playground a boy pointed at him. 
He was standing with a little group watching the 
cricket. 

“His mother goes out charing,” the boy shouted. 

Anthony stole a glance at the boy without making 
any sign of resentment. As a matter of fact his 
mother did occasionally go out charing on days 
when there was no demand for her needle. He was 
a lithe, muscular-looking lad some three inches 
taller than Anthony. 

“Ain’t you going to fight him?” suggested a 
small boy near by with a hopeful grin upon his 
face. 

“Not yet,” answered Anthony, and resumed his 
interest in the game. 


64 


ANTHONY JOHN 


There was an old crony of his uncle’s, an ex¬ 
prize fighter. To this man Anthony made appeal. 
Mr. Dobb was in a quandary. Moved by Mrs. 
Newt’s warnings and exhortations, he had lately 
taken up religion and was now running a small 
public-house in one of the many mining villages ad¬ 
joining Millsborough. 

“It’s agin ‘the Book,’ ” he answered. “Fight- 
ing’s wrong. ‘Whosoever shall smite thee on the 
right cheek turn to him the other also.’ Haven’t 
tried that, have you?” 

“He hasn’t done it,” explained Anthony. “He 
called my mother a charwoman. They’re always 
on to me, shouting after me ‘pauper’ and ‘charity 
boy.’ ” 

“Damn shame,” murmured Mr. Dobb forget¬ 
fully. 

“There’s something inside me,” explained 
Anthony, “that makes me want to kill them and 
never mind what happens to me afterwards. It’s 
that that I’m afraid of. If I could just give one or 
two of them a good licking it would stop it.” 

Mr. Dobb scratched his head. “Wish you’d 
come to me a year ago, my lad,” he said, “before 
your aunt got me to promise to read a chapter of 
the Bible every night before I went to sleep.” He 
looked down at Anthony with an approving pro- 


ANTHONY JOHN 


65 


fessional eye. “You’ve got the shoulders, and 
your neck might have been made for it. Your 
reach couldn’t be better for your height. And all 
you need is another inch round your wind. In a 
couple of months I could have turned you out equal 
to anything up to six stun seven.” 

“But the Bible tells us to fight,” argued Anthony. 
“Yes, it does,” he persisted in reply to Mr. Dobb’s 
stare of incredulity. “It was God who told Saul 
to slay all the Amalekites. It was God who taught 
David to fight, David says so himself. He helped 
him to fight Goliath.” 

Mrs. Newt, having regard to Mr. Dobb’s age, had 
advised him to read the New Testament first. He 
had just completed the Acts. 

“Are you quite sure?” demanded Mr. Dobb. 

Anthony found chapter and verse and read them 
to him. 

“Well, this beats me into a cocked hat,” was Mr. 
Dobb’s comment. “Seems to me to be a case of 
paying your money and taking your choice.” 

Mr. Dobb’s scruples being thus laid at rest, he 
threw himself into the training of Anthony with the 
enthusiasm of an artist. Anthony promised not to 
fight till Mr. Dobb gave his consent, and for the rest 
of the term bore his purgatory in silence. On the 
last day of the vacation Mr. Dobb pronounced him 


66 


ANTHONY JOHN 


fit; and on the next morning Anthony set off hope¬ 
ful of an early opportunity to teach his persecutors 
forbearance. They were interfering with his 
work. He wanted to be done with them. To his 
disappointment no chance occurred that day. A 
few of the customary jibes were hurled at him; 
they came, unfortunately, from boys too small to be 
of any use as an example. 

But on his way home the next afternoon he saw, 
to his delight, young Penlove and Mowbray, of the 
lower fourth, turn up a quiet road that led through 
a little copse to the bathing place. Penlove was the 
boy who had called his mother a charwoman. 
Young Mowbray belonged to the swells; his father 
was the leading solicitor of Millsborough. He was 
a quiet, amiable youth with soft eyes and a pink 
and white complexion. 

Anthony followed them, and when they reached 
the edge of the copse he ran and overtook them. 
It was not a good day for bathing, there being a 
chill east wind, and nobody else was in sight. 

They heard Anthony behind them and turned. 

“Coming for a swim?” asked young Mowbray 
pleasantly. 

“Not today, thank you,” answered Anthony. 
“It’s Penlove I wanted to speak to. It won’t take 
very long.” 


ANTHONY JOHN 


67 


Penlove was looking at him with a puzzled ex¬ 
pression. Anthony was an inch taller than when 
Penlove had noticed him last. 

“What is it?” he demanded, 

“You called my mother a charwoman last term,” 
answered Anthony. “She does go out cleaning 
when she can’t get anything else to do. I think 
it fine of her. She wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t 
for me. But you meant it as an insult, didn’t 
you?” 

“Well,” answered young Penlove, “what if I 
did?” He guessed what was coming, and some¬ 
how felt doubtful of the result notwithstanding the 
two years difference between them. 

“I want you to say that you’re sorry and promise 
never to do it again,” answered Anthony. 

It had to be gone through. Young Penlove 
girded his loins—to be exact, shortened his belt by 
a couple of holes and determined to acquit him¬ 
self like an English schoolboy. Young Mowbray 
stepped to the end of the copse for the purpose of 
keeping cave. 

It was a short fight, for which young Mowbray, 
who always felt a little sick on these occasions, was 
glad. Penlove was outclassed from the beginning. 
After the third round he held up his hand and gave 
Anthony best. Anthony helped him to rise, and 


68 ANTHONY JOHN 

seeing he was still groggy, propped him up against 
a tree. 

“Never mind saying you’re sorry,” he suggested. 
“Leave me and my mother alone for the future, 
that’s all I want.” He held out his hand. 

Young Mowbray had returned. 

“Shake hands with him,” he advised Penlove. 
“You were in the wrong. Show your pluck by 
acknowledging it.” 

Penlove shook hands. “Sorry,” he said. “We 
have been beastly to you. Take my tip and don’t 
stand any more of it.” 

The story of the fight got about. Penlove had 
to account for his changed appearance, and did so 
frankly. Genuine respect was the leading senti¬ 
ment he now entertained towards Anthony. 

It was shared by almost the entire third class, the 
only criticism directed against Anthony being for 
his selection of time and place. The fight ought to 
have been arranged for a Friday afternoon behind 
the pavilion, when all things might have been 
ordered according to ancient custom. That error 
could and must be rectified. Penlove’s account of 
Anthony’s prowess might have been exaggerated to 
excuse his own defeat. Norcop, a hefty youngster 
and the pride of the lower fourth, might have given 
a different account. Anthony, on his way home 


ANTHONY JOHN 


69 


two days later, was overtaken in a quiet street by 
young Mowbray. 

64 You’ll have to fight Norcop next Friday week,” 
he told Anthony. 44 If you lick him there’s to be an 
end of it, and you’re to be left alone. I thought 
I’d let you know in time.” 

Mowbray lived at the Priory, an old Georgian 
house with a big garden the other end of the town. 
He had come far out of his way. 

“It’s awfully kind of you,” said Anthony. 

44 I hope you’ll win,” said Mowbray. 4 Tm a 
Socialist. I think it rubbish all this difference 
between the classes. I think we’re all equal, 
and so does my sister. She’s awfully well 
read.” 

Anthony was not paying much attention. His 
mind was occupied with the ordeal before him. 

44 He’s rather good, isn’t he, Harry Norcop?” he 
asked. 

“That’s why they’re putting him up,” answered 
Mowbray. “It’s a rotten silly idea. It’s the way 
that pack of wolves settle their differences. And 
the wolf that goes down all the others turn away 
from and try to make it worse for the poor begger. 
We’re just the same. If you get licked on Friday 
you’ll be persecuted worse than ever. There’s no 
sense in it.” 


70 


ANTHONY JOHN 


Anthony looked round at him. It was new sort 
of talk, this. Young Mowbray flushed. 

“I wonder if you could get to like me,” he said. 
“I liked you so for what you said to Penlove about 
your thinking it fine of your mother to go out 
cleaning. I haven’t got any friends among the 
boys; not real ones. They think me a muff.” 

“I don’t,” answered Anthony. “I think you talk 
awfully interestingly. I’d like tremendously to be 
friends.” 

Mowbray flushed again, with pleasure this time. 
“Won’t keep you now,” he said. “I do hope 
you’ll win.” 

Anthony never left more than he could help to 
chance. For the next week all his spare time was 
passed in the company of Mr. Dobb, who took upon 
himself the duties not only of instructor but of 
trainer. 

On the following Friday afternoon Anthony 
stepped into the ring with feelings of pleasurable 
anticipation. 

“Don’t you go in feeling angry or savage,” had 
been Mr. Dobb’s parting instruction. “Nothing in¬ 
terferes with a man’s wind more than getting mad. 
Just walk into him as if you loved him and were 
doing it for the glory of God.” 

The chorus of opinion afterwards was that it had 


ANTHONY JOHN 


71 


been a pretty fight. That Norcop had done his 
best and that no disgrace attached to him. And 
that Strong’nth’arm was quite the best man for his 
years and weight that St. Aldys had produced so 
far back as the oldest boy could remember. The 
monitors shook hands with him, and the smaller fry 
crowded round him and contended for his notice. 
From ostracism he passed in half an hour to the 
leadership of the third class. It seemed a curious 
way of gaining honour and affection. Anthony 
made a note of it. 

This principle that if a thing had to be done no 
pains should be spared towards the doing of it 
well he applied with equal thoroughness to the play¬ 
ing of his games. For lessons in football and 
cricket he exchanged lessons in boxing. Cricket he 
did not care for. With practice at the nets it was 
easy enough to become a good batsman; but field¬ 
ing was tiresome. There was too much hanging 
about, too much depending upon other people. 
Football appealed to him. It was swift and cease¬ 
less. He loved the manoeuvring, the subterfuge, 
the seeming yielding, till the moment came for the 
sudden rush. He loved the fierce scrimmage, 
when he could let himself go, putting out all his 
strength. 

But it was not for the sake of the game that he 


72 


ANTHONY JOHN 


played. Through sport lay the quickest road to 
popularity. Class distinctions did not count. You 
made friends that might be useful. One never 
knew. 

His mother found it more and more difficult to 
make both ends meet. If she should fail before 
he was ready! Year by year Millsborough in¬ 
creased in numbers and in wealth. On the slopes 
above the town new, fine houses were being built. 
Her mill owners and her manufacturers, her coal- 
masters and her traders, with all their followers 
and their retainers, waxed richer and more pros¬ 
perous. And along the low-lying land, beside the 
foul, black Wyndbeck, spread year by year new 
miles of mean, drab streets; and the life of her 
poor grew viler and more cursed. 

St. Aldys’ Grammar School stood on the northern 
edge of the old town. Anthony’s way home led 
him through Hill Terrace. From the highest point 
one looks down on two worlds: old Millsborough, 
small and picturesque, with its pleasant ways and 
its green spaces, and beyond its fine new houses 
with their gardens and its tree-lined roads winding 
upward to the moor; on the other hand, new Mills¬ 
borough, vast, hideous, deathlike in its awful 
monotony. 

The boy would stop sometimes, and a wild terror 


ANTHONY JOHN 73 

would seize him lest all his efforts should prove 
futile and in that living grave he should be com¬ 
pelled to rot and die. 

To escape from it, to “get on,” at any cost! 
Nothing else mattered. 


CHAPTER VI 


A N idea occurred to Anthony. The more 
he turned it over in his mind the more it 
promised. Young Tetteridge had entered 
upon his last term. The time would soon come for 
the carrying out o,f Anthony’s suggestion that in 
some mean street of Millsborough he should set up 
a school for the sons of the ambitious poor. 

Why should not one house do for them both? 
To Mr. Tetteridge for his classroom and study the 
ground floor; to his mother for her dressmaking 
and millinery the floor above; the three attics for 
bedrooms; in the basement the common dining¬ 
room and kitchen. There were whole streets of 
such houses, with steps up to the front door and a 
bow window. Mr. Tetteridge would want some¬ 
one to look after him, to “do for” him. Whom 
more capable, more conscientious than Mrs. Strong- 
’nth’arm? The gain would be mutual. His 
mother would be working for better-off customers. 
She could put up her prices. Mr. Tetteridge 
would save in rent and board. 

Mr. Tetteridge was quite carried away by the 

brilliance and simplicity of the proposal. 

74 


ANTHONY JOHN 


75 


“And there will be you and your dear mother al¬ 
ways there,” he concluded. “It is so long since I 
had a home.” 

To his mother the rise from Snelling’s Row to 
Bridlington Street was a great event. It brought 
tears of happiness to her eyes. Also she approved 
of Mr. Tetteridge. 

“It will be so good for you,” she said to An¬ 
thony, “living with a gentleman.” 

There was the furnishing. Mr. Tetteridge’s 
study, into which parents would have to be shown, 
must breathe culture, dignified scholasticism. Mr. 
Tetteridge’s account at Her Majesty’s savings bank 
was a little over twenty pounds. That must not 
be touched. Sickness, the unexpected, must be 
guarded against. Anthony went to see his aunt. 
That with the Lord’s help she had laid by a fair¬ 
sized nest-egg she had in a rash moment of spiritual 
exaltation confided to him. Loans of half a sover¬ 
eign, and even of a five-pound note, amply secured 
and bearing interest at the rate of a shilling 
in the pound per week, she was always prepared to 
entertain. Anthony wanted a hundred pounds at 
ten per cent, per annum, to be repaid on the honour 
of a gentleman. 

The principal required frightened her almost 
into a fit. Besides she hadn’t got it. The rate of 


76 


ANTHONY JOHN 


interest, which according to complicated calcula¬ 
tions of her own worked out at considerably less 
than halfpenny a pound per week, did not tempt 
her. About the proposed security there seemed to 
her a weakness. 

In years to come the things without a chance that 
Anthony Strong’nth’arm pulled off, the impracti¬ 
cable schemes that with a wave of his hand became 
sound business propositions, the hopeless enter¬ 
prises into which he threw himself and carried 
through to victory, grew to be the wonder and be¬ 
wilderment of Millsborough. But never in all his 
career was he called upon again to face such an 
absolutely impossible stone waller as his aunt’s de¬ 
termination on that Friday afternoon not to be 
bamboozled out of hard-won savings by any imp 
of Satan, even if for her sins he happened to be 
her own nephew. 

How he did it Mrs. Newt was never able to ex¬ 
plain. It was not what he said, though heaven 
knows there was no lack of that. Mrs. Newt’s 
opinion was that by words alone he could have got 
it out of a stone. It was some strange magic he 
seemed to possess that made her—to use her own 
simile—as clay in the hands of the potter. 

She gave him that one hundred pounds in twenty 
five-pound notes, thanking God from the bottom of 



ANTHONY JOHN 77 

her heart that he hadn’t asked for two. In ex- 
change he drew from his pocket, and pressed into 
her hand a piece of paper. What it was about and 
what she had done with it she never knew. She re¬ 
membered there was a stamp on it. 

She also remembered, when she came to her 
senses, that he had put his armsj about her and had 
hugged her, and that she had kissed him good-bye 
and had given him a message to his mother. At 
the end of the first twelve months he brought her 
thirty pounds, explaining to her that that left eighty 
still owing. And what astonished her most was 
that she wasn’t surprised. It was just as if she 
had expected it. 

The pupils came in. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, 
knowing many folk, was of much help. 

Mrs. Strong’nth’arm’s idea had been to call upon 
some half a dozen likely parents, to appeal to them 
for their support of a most deserving case: a young 
would-be schoolmaster of whose character and 
ability she could not speak too highly. 

“And they’ll tell you it’s very kind of you to try 
and assist the poor young gentleman, but that as 
regards their own particular progeny they’ve 
decided to send him somewhere else,” explained 
Anthony. 

“How do you know?” argued his mother. 


78 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“Why, Mrs. Glenny, the china shop woman, was 
telling me only a month ago how worried she was 
about her boy, not knowing where to send him.” 

“You drop in on Mrs. Glenny,” counselled 
Anthony, “and talk about the weather and how the 
price of everything is going up. And as you’re 
coming away just mention casually how everybody 
is talking about this new school that Mr. Tetteridge 
has just started; and how everybody is trying to get 
their boys into it; and how they won’t be able to, 
seeing that young Tetteridge has told you that he 
can only receive a limited number; and how you’ve 
promised Mrs. Herring to use your influence with 
Tetteridge in favour of her boy Tom. Leave Mrs. 
Glenny to do the rest.” 

People had a habit of asking Anthony his age; 
and when he told them they would look at him very 
hard and say: “Are you quite sure?” 

His uncle was taken ill late in the year. He had 
caught rheumatic fever getting himself wet through 
on the moors. He made a boast of never wearing 
an overcoat. Anthony found him sitting up in bed. 
A carpenter friend had fixed him up a pulley from 
the ceiling by which he could raise himself with 
his hands. Old Simon was sitting watching him, 
his chin upon the bed. Simon had been suffering 


ANTHONY JOHN 


79 


himself from rheumatism during the last two 
winters and seemed to understand. 

“Don’t tell your aunt,” he said. “She’ll have 
them all praying round me and I’ll get no peace. 
But r Ve got a feeling it’s the end. I’m hoping to 
slip off on the quiet, like.” 

Anthony asked if he could do anything. He 
had always liked his uncle; they felt there was a 
secret bond between them. 

“Look after the old chap,” his uncle answered; 
“that is if I go first.” 

He stretched out a stiff arm and laid it on old 
Simon’s head. “Ninety years old he’ll be on the 
fourteenth,” he said, “reckoning six years of a 
dog’s life as equal to one of a man’s. And I’m 
sixty-five. We haven’t done so badly, either of 
us.” 

Anthony drew up a chair and sat down between 
the two. 

“Nothing you want to talk about, is there?” he 
asked. The old man knew what he meant. He 
shook his head. 

“Been talking about it or listening to it, on and 
off, pretty well all my life,” he answered. “Never 
got any further.” 

He was silent a while, wrestling with his pain. 


80 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“Of course, I believe in a God,” he said. 
“There must be Somebody bossing it all. It’s the 
things they tell you about Him that I’ve never been 
able to swallow. Don’t fit in with common sense 
to my thinking.” 

“You’re not afraid?” Anthony asked him after 
a silence. 

“Why should I be?” answered the old man. 
“He knows me. He ain’t expecting anything won¬ 
derful. If I’m any good maybe He’ll find me a 
job. If not-” 

Old Simon had crept closer. They were looking 
into each other’s eyes. 

“Wonder if there’ll be any dogs?” he said. 
“Don’t see why there shouldn’t. If love and faith¬ 
fulness and self-forgetfulness are going to be of 
any use to Him, what’s wrong with you, old 
chap?” 

He laughed. “Don’t tell your aunt I said that,” 
he cautioned Anthony. “She’s worried enough 
about me, poor old girl, as it is.” 

His aunt had looked for a death-bed repentance, 
but the end came before she expected it, in the 
night. 

“He wasn’t really a bad man,” she said, crying. 
“That’s what made me hope, right to the end, that 
the Truth would be revealed to him.” 



ANTHONY JOHN 81 

Anthony sought to comfort her. “Perhaps it 
came to him when he was alone,” he said. 

She clung to that. 

The burying of him was another trouble. She 
had secured the site she had always wished for 
herself beneath the willow. She would have liked 
him to be laid there beside her, but his views and 
opinions had been too well known to her people. 
They did not want him among them. There was a 
neglected corner of the big cemetery set apart for 
such as he; but to lay him there would be to aban¬ 
don hope. The Lord would never venture there. 
Anthony suggested the Church. He undertook to 
interview the vicar, a kindly old gentleman, who 
possibly would ask no questions. 

He found the vicar in the vestry. There had 
been a meeting of the churchwardens. The Rev¬ 
erend Mr. Sheepskin was a chubby, blue-eyed 
gentleman. He had heard of Anthony’s uncle. 
“A very hard nut to crack,” so the vicar had been 
given to understand. 

“But was always willing to listen, I gathered,” 
added the vicar. “So perhaps the fault was ours. 
We didn’t go about it the right way.” 

Something moved Anthony to tell the vicar what 
his uncle had once said to him when he was a child 
about the world being a very different place if 


82 ANTHONY JOHN 

people really did believe all that they say they be¬ 
lieve. 

He wished he hadn’t said it, for the old gentle¬ 
man sat silent for what seemed quite a long time. 

“What did they answer him?” he asked at 
length. “Did he tell you?” 

“He said they never did answer him that,” re¬ 
plied Anthony. 

The vicar looked at him across the green baize. 
“There isn’t any answer,” he said. “Your uncle 
had us there. 

“I dreamed of it once.” The light was fading; 
maybe he forgot that young Anthony was sitting 
there over against him in the shadows. “Living 
for Christ, taking no thought of aught else. What 
ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink or wherewithal 

ye shall be clothed. It’s a big thing—Believ- 

• ?? 

mg. 

He seemed to have become aware again of the 
boy sitting there half hidden by the shadows. 

“Most of us, Strong’nth’arm,” he said, “think 
that all we’ve got to do is to sing about it, to repeat 
it in the proper places. It isn’t enough. Take up 
thy cross and follow me. That’s where the trouble 
begins. Easy enough to worship it with folded 
hands. It is taking it up, carrying it with bowed 
head and aching shoulders, that’s the bother of it.” 


ANTHONY JOHN 83 

He rose, pushing back his chair with a grating 
sound upon the uncarpeted floor. 

“You see,” he said, “it isn’t only oneself. One 
might do it if one were alone. The Roman Church 
is right on that point. And yet it doesn’t work, 
even with them. The world gets hold of them. 
What’s the date?” he said suddenly. 

“December the fifth,” Anthony told him. 

“Just three weeks to Christmas.” He was walk¬ 
ing up and down the bare cold room. He halted a 
few steps in front of the lad. “Do you know what 
Christmas means to me? You will later on. Bills. 
Butcher’s bills, baker’s bills, bootmaker’s bills— 
there’s something uncanny about the number of 
boots that children seem to want. And then there’s 
their school bills and their doctor’s bills and the 
Christmas boxes and the presents. It’s funny when 
you come to think of it. Christ’s birthday. And 
I’ve come to dread it. What were we all talking 
about this afternoon here in the vestry? How to 
help Christ? How to spread His gospel? No, 
pew rates, tithes, clergy relief funds, curates’ 
salaries, gas bills, fund for central heating and 
general repairs! 

“How can I preach Christ, the Outcast, the 
Beggar, the Wanderer in the Wilderness, the Serv¬ 
ant of the poor, the Carrier of the Cross? That’s 


84 


ANTHONY JOHN 


what I started out to preach. They’d only laugh 
at me. ‘He lives in a big house,’ they would say; 
‘keeps four servants’—when one can get them— 
‘and his sons go to college.’ God knows it’s 
struggle enough to do it. But I oughtn’t to be 
struggling to do it. I ought to be down among the 
people, teaching Christ not only by my words but 
my life.” 

It had grown dark. The vicar, stumbling 
against a small side table, brought it down with a 
clatter. Anthony found the matches and lit the 
gas. The vicar held out a plump hand. 

“It’ll be all right about your uncle,” he said. 
“See Mr. Grant and arrange things with him.” 

Anthony thanked him and was leaving. The 
Reverend Mr. Sheepskin drew him back. “Don’t 
judge me too hardly,” he said with a smile. 
“Leastways, not till you’ve lived a bit longer. 
Something made me talk without thinking. If any¬ 
thing I’ve said comes back to you at any time, listen 
to it. It may have been a better sermon than I 
usually preach.” 

His aunt was much comforted when he told her. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, “if he got 
through after all. Anyhow, we’ve done our best 
for him.” 

Old Simon had returned to the railway carriage. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


85 


He seemed to know that all was over. He lingered 
for a little while, but there was no heart in him. 
And one morning they found him dead. 

A friendship had grown up between Anthony and 
young Mowbray. It had been chiefly of Edward 
Mowbray’s seeking, but Anthony had been attracted 
by Edward’s gentleness and kindness. Mowbray’s 
father had also taken a lfking to him and he came 
to be a frequent visitor at The Priory. 

Mr. Mowbray was a fine, handsome gentleman of 
about fifty, fonder of pleasure than of business it 
was said. He rode to hounds and prided himself 
on being one of the best shots in the county. He 
was a widower. Gossip whispered of an unhappy 
marriage, for the lady—of neglect and infidelities. 
But this may not have been true, for Mr. Mowbray 
always spoke of his wife with enthusiasm, and 
often tears would come into his eyes. Her portrait 
by Orchardson hung in the dining-room facing Mr. 
Mowbray’s chair: an arresting face, though hardly 
beautiful, the forehead being too high and narrow. 
It was in the eyes that the attraction lay. They 
seemed almost to speak. Mr. Mowbray, during a 
lull in the conversation, would sometimes raise his 
glass and drink to her in silence. He was fond of 
his fine old port, and so were most of his many 
friends. There were only two children, Edward 



86 


ANTHONY JOHN 


and his sister Elizabeth. She was the elder by a 
couple of years. She had her mother’s haunting 
eyes, but the face as a whole was less striking. 
Anthony had been rather afraid of her at first, and 
she had not taken much notice of him. She was 
considered eccentric by reason of her not taking 
any interest in games and amusements. In this 
both children were a strange contrast to their 
father. She would have been dubbed a “high 
brow” in later years; “blue stocking” was the name 
then. 

It was by Edward and his sister that Anthony 
was introduced to politics. They were ardent re¬ 
formers. They dreamed of a world in which 
there would be no more poor. They thought it 
might be brought about in their time, at least so far 
as England was concerned. Edward was the more 
impatient of the two. He thought it would have to 
come by revolution. Elizabeth (or Betty as she 
was generally called for short) had once been of 
the same opinion. But she was changing. She 
pointed out the futility of the French Revolution. 
And even had there been excuse for it the need no 
longer existed. All could be done now through the 
ballot box. Leaders must arise, men wise and 
noble. The people would vote for them. Laws 
must be passed. The evil and the selfish com- 


ANTHONY JOHN 


87 


pelled to amend their ways. The rotten houses 
must be pulled down; pleasant, well-planned habi¬ 
tations take their place, so that the poor might live 
decently and learn the meaning of “home.” Work 
must be found for all; the haunting terror of un¬ 
employment be lifted from their lives. It easily 
could be done. There was work waiting, more 
than enough, if only the world were properly 
ordered. Fair wages must be paid, carrying with 
them a margin for small comforts, recreation. 
The children must be educated so that in time the 
poor would be lifted up and the wall between the 
classes levelled down. Leaders were the one thing 
needful: if rich and powerful so much the better: 
men who would fight for the right and never sheathe 
the sword till they had won justice for the people. 

They were tramping the moors. The wind had 
compelled her to take off her hat and carry it and 
had put colour into her cheeks. Anthony thought 
she looked very handsome with her fine eyes flash¬ 
ing beneath their level brows. 

In their talk they had lost their tracks and were 
making a bee line for the descent. A stream 
barred their way. It babbled over stones and 
round the roots of trees. Edward picked her up 
to carry her across, but at the margin hesitated, 
doubting his muscles. 


88 ANTHONY JOHN 

‘‘You’ll be safer with Anthony,” he said, putting 
her down. 

“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t mind getting 
my feet wet.” But Anthony had already lifted her 
in his arms. 

“You’re sure I’m not too heavy?” she asked. 

He laughed and stepped down with her into the 
stream. 

He carried her some distance beyond the bank, 
explaining that the ground was still marshy. He 
liked the pressure of her weight upon his breast. 


CHAPTER VII 


I T was the evening previous to young Mow¬ 
bray’s departure for Oxford. Betty was 
going with him to help him furnish his rooms. 
They would have a few days together before term 
began, and she wanted to see Oxford. Anthony 
had come to say good-bye. Mr. Mowbray was at 
a dinner given by the mayor, and the three young 
people had been left to themselves. Betty had 
gone into the servants’ quarters to give some orders. 
The old housekeeper had died the year before and 
Betty had taken over the entire charge. They were 
sitting in the library. The great drawing-room 
was used only when there was company. 

“Look in now and again when I am away,” said 
Edward. “Betty hasn’t many friends and she likes 
talking to you.” 

“And I like talking to her tremendously,” 
answered Anthony. “But, I say, will it be 

099 

proper: 

“Oh, what rot,” answered Edward. “You’re 

not that sort, either of you. Besides, things are 

different to what they used to be. Why shouldn’t 

there be just friendship between men and women?” 

89 


90 


ANTHONY JOHN 


Betty entered as he finished speaking, and the 
case was put to her. 

“Yes, I shall be sorry to miss our talks,” she 
said. She turned to Anthony with a smile. “How 
old are you?” she asked. 

“Sixteen,” he answered. 

She was surprised. “I thought you were older,” 
she said. 

“Sixteen last birthday,” he persisted. “People 
have always taken me for older than I am. 
Mother used to have terrible fights with the tram 
conductors; they would have I was nearer five than 
three. She thought quite seriously of sewing a 
copy of my birth certificate inside my cap.” He 
laughed. 

“You’re only a boy,” said Betty. “I’m nearly 
nineteen. Yes, come and see me sometimes.” 

Edward expected to be at Oxford three years. 
After that he would return to Millsborough and 
enter his father’s office. Mowbray and Cousins 
was the name of the firm, but Cousins had long 
passed out of it, and eventually the whole business 
would belong to Edward. 

“Why don’t you go in for the Remingham 
Scholarship?” he said suddenly, turning to 
Anthony, “and join me next year at Oxford. You 
could win it hands down; and as for funds to help 


ANTHONY JOHN 


91 


you out, my father would see to that, I know, if I 
asked him. He thinks tremendously well of you. 
Do, for my sake.” 

Anthony shook his head. “I have thought about 
it,” he said. “Pm afraid.” 

Edward stared at him. “What on earth is there 
to be afraid of?” he demanded. 

“I’m afraid of myself,” answered Anthony. 
“Nobody thinks it of me, I know; but I’d end by 
being a dreamer if I let myself go. My father had 
it in him. That’s why he never got on. If I went 
to Oxford and got wandering about all those old 
colleges and gardens I wouldn’t be able to help my¬ 
self. I’d end by being a mere student. I’ve had 
to fight against it even here, as it is.” 

Edward and Betty were both listening to him, 
suddenly interested. The girl was leaning forward 
with her chin upon her hand. Anthony rose and 
walked to the window. The curtains had not been 
drawn. He looked down upon the glare of Mills- 
borough fading into darkness where the mean 
streets mingled with the sodden fields. 

“You don’t understand what it means,” he said. 
“Poverty, fear—all your life one long struggle for 
bare existence.” 

He turned and faced the softly-lighted room 
with its carved ceiling and fine Adams mantel- 


92 


ANTHONY JOHN 


piece, its Chippendale furniture, its choice pictures 
and old Persian rugs. 

Everything about you mean and ugly,” he con¬ 
tinued. “Everybody looking down upon you, pat¬ 
ronizing you. I want to get out of it. Learning 
isn’t going to help me. At best, what would I be 
without money or influence to start me? A school¬ 
master—a curate, perhaps, on eighty pounds a 
year. Business is my only chance. I’m good at 
that. I feel I could be. Planning, organizing, 
getting people to see things your way, making 
them do things. It’s just like fighting, only you 
use your brains instead of your hands. I’m al¬ 
ways thinking about things that could be done that 
would be good for every one. I mean to do them 
one day. My father used to invent machines and 
other people stole them from him, and kept all the 
profit for themselves. They’re not going to do that 

with me. They shall have their share, but I-” 

He stopped and flushed scarlet. 

“I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “I’ve got into a 
way of talking to myself. I forgot I was here.” 

Betty had risen. “I think you are quite right,” 
she said. “And when you’ve got on you’ll think 
of those who live always in poverty and fear. 
You’ll know all about them and the way to help 
them. You will help them, won’t you?” 



ANTHONY JOHN 93 

She spoke gravely. She might have been pre¬ 
senting a petition to the Prime Minister. 

“Of course I will,” he said. “I mean to.” 

She rang the bell and ordered coffee and cakes. 

While they were munching she sprung it upon 
them that she was going to buy a bicycle. A new 
design had just been invented with two low wheels 
of equal size. It could be made so that a lady 
could ride it. 

Edward was just a little shocked. Betty had the 
reputation as it was of being a bit eccentric. She 
went long walks by herself in thick boots and rarely 
wore gloves. This would make her still more 
talked about. Betty thought she would be doing 
good. As the daughter of one of the leading men 
in Millsborough she could afford to defy the con¬ 
ventions and open the way for others. Girls em¬ 
ployed in the mills, who now only saw their people 
twice a year, would be able to run home for week¬ 
ends, would be able to enjoy rides into the country 
on half-holidays. Revolutions always came from 
the top. The girls would call after her at first, she 
fully expected. Later they would be heartened to 
follow her example. 

Her difficulty was learning. She proposed to go 
up to the moors early in the morning where she 
could struggle with the thing unseen. But at first 


94 


ANTHONY JOHN 


one wanted assistance and support. There was the 
gardener’s boy. But she feared he was weak about 
the knees. 

“I wish you’d let me come,” said Anthony. “I 
like a walk in the early morning. It freshens my 
brain for the day.” 

“Thank you,” she answered. “I was really 
thinking of you, but I didn’t like to ask in case it 
might interfere with your work.” 

She promised to let him know when the bicycle 
arrived. He might like to come round and have 
a look at it. 

It was with something of a pang that he said 
good-bye to Edward, though it would be less than 
three months before they would meet again. He 
had not made many friends at the school; he was 
too self-centered. Young Mowbray was the only 
boy for whom he felt any real affection. 

Tetteridge’s “Preparatory and Commercial 
School” had prospered beyond expectation. In 
the language of the advertisement it supplied a 
long-felt want. “The gentry” of Millsborough— 
to be exact, its better-off shopkeepers, its higher- 
salaried clerks and minor professionals—were 
catered for to excess. But among its skilled work¬ 
men and mechanics, earning good wages, were 
many ambitious for their children. Education was 


ANTHONY JOHN 


95 


in the air; feared by most of the upper classes as 
likely to be the beginning of red ruin and the 
breaking up of laws; regarded by the more thought¬ 
ful of the workers, with extravagant hopes, as 
being the sure road to the Promised Land. Tet- 
teridge had a natural genius for teaching; he had a 
way of making the work interesting. The boys 
liked him and talked about him and the things he 
told them. It became clear that the house in 
Bridlington Street would soon be too small for his 
needs. 

“It sounds nonsensical, I know,” said Mr. Tet¬ 
teridge; “but there are times when I wish that I 
hadn’t been so sensible.” 

“What have you been doing sensible?” laughed 
Anthony. 

“When I followed your most excellent and 
youthful advice, Tony, and started this confounded 
school,” explained Mr. Tetteridge. 

“What’s wrong with it?” asked Anthony. 

“Success,” replied Mr. Tetteridge. “It’s going 
to grow. I shall end in a big square house with 
boarders and assistant masters and prayers at eight 
o’clock. I shall dress in a black frock-coat and 
wear a chimney-pot hat. I shall Jiave to. The 
parents will expect it.” 

“There’ll be holidays,” suggested Anthony, 


96 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“when you’ll be able to go walking tours in knicker¬ 
bockers and a tweed cap.” 

“No, I sha’n’t,” said Mr. Tetteridge. “I shall be 
a married man. There’ll be children, most likely. 
We shall go for a month to the seaside and listen to 
niggers. The children will clamour for it. I 
shall never escape from children all my life, and 
I’ll never get away from Millsborough. I shall die 
here, an honoured and respected citizen of Mills¬ 
borough. Do you know what my plan was? I’d 
worked it all out? Wandering about the world 
like Oliver Goldsmith, with my fiddle. Earning 
my living while I tramped, sleeping under the stars 
or in some village inn, listening to the talk and 
stories; making sketches of odd characters, quaint 
scenes and places; sitting by the wayside making 
poetry. Do you know, Tony, I believe I could 

have been a poet—could have left a name behind 
” 

me. 

“You’ll have your evenings,” argued Anthony. 
“They’ll all go at four o’clock. You can write 
your poetry between tea and supper.” 

“ ‘To Irene of the Ringlets,’ ” suggested Tet¬ 
teridge. “ ‘God and the Grasshopper,’ ‘Ode to 
Idleness.’ What do you think the parents would 
say? Besides, they don’t come between tea and 


ANTHONY JOHN 97 

supper. They come in the mental arithmetic hour. 
I kick ’em out and slam the door. They never 
come again.” 

Anthony’s face expressed trouble. Something 
within him enabled him to understand. Tetteridge 
laughed. 

“It’s all right,” he said. He took the photo¬ 
graph of the science master’s daughter from the 
mantelpiece and kissed it. “I’m going to marry 
the dearest little girl in all the world, and we’re 
going to get on and be very happy. Who knows? 
Perhaps we may keep our carriage.” 

He replaced the latest photograph of Miss Seaton 
on the mantelpiece. She wasn’t as dolly-faced as 
she had been. The mouth had grown firmer, and 
the look of wonder in the eyes had gone. She sug¬ 
gested rather a capable young woman. 

He had left to Anthony the search for new 
premises. Anthony was still undecided when 
something unexpected happened. The younger 
Miss Warmington, after a brief illness, died. 
Mrs. Plumberry had nursed her, and at Anthony’s 
request consented to call at 15 Bruton Square and 
find out how the land lay. It would be the very 
thing It had two large class-rooms built out into 
the garden. Mrs. Plumberry was a born diplo- 


98 


ANTHONY JOHN 


matist. She reported that Miss Warmington, now 
absolutely alone in the world, had cried a little on 
Mrs. Plumberry’s motherly shoulder; had confided 
to Mrs. Plumberry that the school had been going 
down for some time past; that she had neither the 
heart nor the means to continue it. Mrs. Plum- 
berry’s advice to her had been that she should get 
rid of the remainder of her lease, if possible, and 
thus avoid liability regarding covenants for repa¬ 
ration. Miss Warmington had expressed the thank¬ 
fulness with which she would do this, that is if a 
purchaser could be found; and Mrs. Plumberry, 
though not holding out much hope, had promised to 
look about her. 

Thus it came to pass that once again Mrs. Strong- 
’nth’arm and Anthony were ushered into the draw¬ 
ing-room of 15 Bruton Square and rested on its 
horse-hair-covered chairs. But this time Mrs. 
Strong’nth’arm sat well back; and it was Miss 
Warmington who, on entering, held out her hand. 
Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, imagining beforehand, had 
intended not to see, but second nature again was too 
strong. Miss Warmington, though old and feeble, 
was still impressive, and Mrs. Strong’nth’arm curt¬ 
sied and apologized for intrusion. 

Miss Warmington smiled as she shook hands 
with Anthony. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


99 


“You were a little boy when I saw you last,” she 

said, “and you sat with your leg tucked under 
?? 

you. 

“And he wouldn’t come to your school when you 
asked him to,” interposed Mrs. Strong’nth’arm. 
She had made up her mind to get that out. 

Miss Warmington flushed. “I think he was very 
wise,” she said. “I hear quite wonderful accounts 
of him.” Anthony had closed the door and placed 
a chair for her. “And I see he has learned 
manners,” she added with another smile. 

Anthony laughed. “I was very rude,” he ad¬ 
mitted, “and you are a very kind lady to forgive 
me. 

The business, so far as Miss Warmington was 
concerned, was soon finished. She wondered af¬ 
terwards why she had accepted Anthony’s offer 
without even putting up a fight. It was consider¬ 
ably less than the sum she had determined to stand 
out for. But on all points, save the main issue, he 
had yielded to her; and it had seemed to her at the 
time that she was getting her own way. They had 
kept up the fiction of the business being between 
Mrs. Strong’nth’arm and Miss Warmington, 
Anthony explaining always that it was his mother 
who was prepared to do so and so—his mother, 
alas! who was unable to do the other, Mrs. Strong- 


100 


ANTHONY JOHN 


’nth’arm confirming with a nod or a murmur. 

Over a friendly cup of tea letters were ex¬ 
changed then and there, thus enabling Mrs. Strong¬ 
’nth’arm to dismiss all thought of other houses that 
had been offered her. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm un¬ 
dertook to pay Miss Warmington three hundred 
pounds and to take over Miss Warmington’s lease 
with all its covenants, together with all fixtures 
and such furniture as Miss Warmington would not 
require for her own small needs. 

44 And where the money’s to come from I suppose 
you know,” commented Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, as the 
door of 15 Bruton Square closed behind them. 
“Blessed if I do!” 

Anthony laughed. “That’ll be all right, 
mother,” he said. “Don’t you worry.” 

“To hear him!” murmured his mother, address¬ 
ing the darkening sky above her. “Talking about 
three hundred pounds to be paid next Tuesday 
week and laughing about it! Ah! if your poor 
father had only had your head.” 

He explained to his aunt that this time there 
would be good security and that in consequence she 
was going to get only five per cent. She tried to 
make him say seven, more from general principle 
than with any hope of success. But he only 
laughed. By degrees he had constituted himself 


ANTHONY JOHN 


101 


her man of business; and under his guidance her 
savings had rapidly increased. To Mrs. Newt a 
successful speculation proved that God was be¬ 
hind you. She had come to regard her nephew 
with reverence, as being evidently in the Lord’s 
counsels. 

He had a further proposition to put before her. 
The dogs had long ago been sold, and the old rail¬ 
way carriage had fallen into ruin. The tumble¬ 
down cottage, in which his aunt now lived alone, 
was threatening to follow its example; but the land 
on which it stood had grown in value. The price he 
felt sure he could get for it made her open her 
eyes. The cottage disposed of, she could come and 
live with them at Bruton Square, paying, of course, 
for her board and lodging. The sum he suggested 
per week made her open her eyes still wider. But 
he promised she should be comfortable and well 
looked after. Again she made a feeble effort to 
touch his heart, but he only kissed her and told her 
that he would see to everything and that she wasn’t 
to worry. Forty years—all but—she had dwelt in 
Prospect Cottage, Moor End Lane. She had been 
married from the Jolly Cricketers, and after a 
day’s honeymoon by the sea Joe had brought her 
there and never a night since then had she slept 
away from it. There had been fields about it in 


102 


ANTHONY JOHN 


those days. She dratted the boy more than once 
or twice as she poked about the tiny rooms, select¬ 
ing the few articles she intended to keep. But she 
was ready on the appointed day. She had pur¬ 
chased gloves and a new bonnet. One must needs 
be dressy for Bruton Square. 

Anthony had two rooms at the top of the house, 
one for his bedroom and the other for his study. 
He had always been fond of reading. His 
favourite books were histories and memoirs. 
Emerson and Montaigne he had chosen for himself 
as prizes. His fiction was confined to “Gulliver’s 
Travels.” There were also Smiles’ “Self-Help,” 
“From Log-Cabin to White House,” Franklin’s 
“Autobiography,” and the “Life of Abraham 
Lincoln.” 

His mother had given up the dressmaking busi¬ 
ness. Young Tetteridge had brought home his 
bride, and keeping house for five people, even with 
help, took up all her time. Often of an evening 
she would bring her sewing and sit with Anthony 
while he worked. 

It was towards the end of the Michaelmas term; 
Anthony was in the lower sixth. He had deter¬ 
mined to leave at Christmas. The upper sixth 
spent all its time on the classics which would be 
useless to him. 


ANTHONY JOHN 103 

“What do you think of doing when you do 
leave?” asked his mother. “Have you made up 
your mind?’ 

“Go into old Mowbray’s office if he’ll have me,” 
answered Anthony. 

“Edward will put in a word for you there, won’t 
he?” suggested his mother. 

“Yes. I’m reckoning on that,” he answered. 

Anthony turned again to his book, but his 
mother’s needle lay idle. 

“The girl’s friendly too, isn’t she?” she asked. 
“They say she can’t express a wish that he doesn’t 
grant her.” 

Anthony did not answer. He seemed not to have 
heard. His mother’s thimble rolled to the floor. 
Anthony recovered it and gave it to her. 

“What’s she like?” his mother asked him. 

“Oh, all right,” he answered, “a nice enough 
girl.” 

“She’s older than you, isn’t she?” said his 
mother. 

“Yes; I think she is,” said Anthony. “Not 
much.” 

“Tom Cripps was up on the moor the other morn¬ 
ing.” His mother had resumed her sewing. 
“Poaching, I expect. He saw you both there. 
He’s a rare one to gossip. Will it matter?” 


104 


ANTHONY JOHN 


Anthony laid down his book. “Was father in 
love with you when he married you?” he asked. 

His mother looked up astonished. “What an 
odd question to ask,” she said. “Of course he 
was. Madly in love. Some said I was the 
prettiest girl in Millsborough—not counting, of 
course, the gentry. What makes you ask?” 

Instead of answering he asked her another. 

“What do you mean by madly in love?” 

His mother was smiling to herself. The little 
grey head was at a higher angle than usual. 

“Oh, you know,” she said. “Walked six miles 
there and back every evening just to get five 
minutes’ talk with me. Said he’d drown himself 
if I didn’t marry him. And was that jealous— 
why, I daren’t so much as speak to anything else 
in trousers. Wrote poetry to me. Only silly like, 
one day when I was mad with him, I burnt it.” 

He did not answer. She stole a glance at him. 
And suddenly it came to her what was in his mind. 

“It never lasts,” she said. “I’ve often thought 
as folks would be better without it.” She chatted 
on, keeping a comer of her eye upon him. “Young 
Tetteridge was in love up to his ears when he first 
came to us. That marriage isn’t going to turn out 
trumps. So was Ted Mowbray—the old man, I 


ANTHONY JOHN 


105 


mean- Worshipped the very ground she trod 

on. Everybody talked about it. Didn’t prevent his 
gallivanting off wherever his fancy took him before 
they’d been married three years. Guess she wished 
he’d been less hot at first. Might have kept warm 
a little longer.” She laughed. “Some one you 
like and feel you can get on with, and that you know 
is fond of you; that’s the thing that wears and 
makes for the most happiness. And if she’s got 
a bit of money or can help you in other ways— 
well, there ain’t no harm in that.” She stopped 
to thread a needle. “Ain’t ever had a fancy, 
have you?” she asked. 

“No,” he answered. “That’s what’s troubling 
me. I suppose I’m too young.” 

His mother shook her head. “You’re too level¬ 
headed, lad,” she said. “You’ll never make a 
fool of yourself; for that’s what it means, generally 
speaking. You’ll marry with your eyes open; and 
she’ll be a lucky woman, because you ain’t the sort 
to blow hot and cold and repent of a thing after 
you’ve done it. That’s what breaks a woman’s 
heart.” 

She gathered together her work and rose. 

“Don’t get sitting up too late,” she said. “Don’t 
do to burn the candle at both ends.” 



106 ANTHONY JOHN 

She was bending down over him. She paused 
a moment with his head between her hands. 

“I suppose you know how handsome you are,” 
she said. 

She kissed him and went out. 


CHAPTER VIII 


T HEY were walking on the moor. It was a 
Wednesday afternoon. Betty was on the 
way to one of her numerous pensioners, a 
bed-ridden old labourer who lived in what had once 
been a gamekeeper’s cottage on the edge of a wood, 
with a granddaughter to keep house for him, a 
handsome, wild-looking girl of about sixteen. 

“What are you going to do when you leave 
school?” Betty asked suddenly. Since the dis¬ 
covery that she was two years older than Anthony 
she had adopted towards him a motherly attitude. 
She had laid it aside while she was learning to ride 
the bicycle. Anthony’s early mechanical training 
had given him a general knowledge of adjustments 
and repairs. He had assumed the position of in¬ 
structor, and had spoken in tones of authority. 
Feeling her safety dependent upon his strength and 
agility, compelled so often to call to him for help, 
to cling to him for support, she had been docile and 
apologetic. But the interlude ended, she had re¬ 
sumed her airs of superiority. 

“Oughtn’t you to be thinking about it?” she 
added. 


107 


108 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“I have been thinking about it,” he explained. 
“My difficulty is that I’ve no one to advise me, not 
now Sir William Coomber’s dead.” 

“Why don’t you have a talk with father?” she 
suggested. 

“I did think of that too,” he said with a laugh. 
“But it seems so cheeky.” 

“How would you like to go into his office?” she 
asked after a silence. 

“Do you think he would?” he answered eagerly. 

“I’ll sound him about it,” she said. 

They had reached the path leading to the game¬ 
keeper’s cottage. Anthony had vaulted over the 
stile. He had turned and was facing her. 

“You are a brick,” he said. 

He was looking up at her; she was standing on 
the cross-bar of the stile. She smiled and held out 
her hand for him to help her. She had beautiful 
hands. They were cool and firm, though in con¬ 
sequence of her habit of not wearing gloves, less 
white and smooth than those of other girls in her 
position. 

He took it, and bending over it kissed it. 
Neither spoke again till they reached the old man’s 
cottage. 

It was a week later that he received a note from 
Mr. Mowbray asking him to come to dinner. He 


ANTHONY JOHN 


109 


found Mr. Mowbray alone. Betty had gone to a 
party at one of the neighbours. Mr. Mowbray put 
him next to him on his right, and they talked 
during the meal. Mowbray asked him ques¬ 
tions about his school career and then about his 
father. 

“Funny,” he said, “we were turning out some old 
papers the other day. Came across your grand¬ 
father’s marriage settlement. I suppose you know 
that the Strong’nth’arms were quite important folk 
a hundred years ago.” 

Anthony had heard about them chiefly from his 
mother. His father had had no use for them. 

Mr. Mowbray was sipping his port. 

“My grandfather was a tailor in Sheffield,” he 
volunteered. He could afford to remember his 
grandfather. His father had entertained George 
IV, and his mother had been a personal friend of 
Queen Caroline. He himself might have been an 
aristocrat of the first water if manners and appear¬ 
ances stood for lineage. 

“I shouldn’t have suspected it, sir,” said 
Anthony. He was looking at Mr. Mowbray with 
genuine admiration. Their eyes met and Mr. 
Mowbray laughed, well pleased. 

“Don’t you mention that to Betty,” he said. 
“She hates to be reminded of it. I tease her about 


110 


ANTHONY JOHN 


it sometimes when she gets on her high horse and 
starts riding roughshod over all the social conven¬ 
tions. I tell her it’s her bourgeois blood coming 
out in her. He was an awful Radical. It always 
stops her.” 

He lit a cigar and pushed back his chair. 
Anthony did not smoke. 

“And now to come to business,” he said. “What 
are you going to do when you leave school?” 

“I thought of trying to get into an office,” 
answered Anthony. 

“Any particular sort (of an office?” demanded 
Mr. Mowbray. 

“Yes, sir,” answered Anthony. “Yours, if 
you’ll have me.” 

Mr. Mowbray was regarding him through half- 
closed eyes. 

“You want to be a business-man? You feel 
that’s your metier? So Betty tells me.” 

Anthony flushed. “I hope she didn’t tell you 
all I said,” he laughed. “It was the night I came 
in to say good-bye to Edward. I got excited and 
talked without thinking. But I do think it’s my 
best chance,” he continued. “I like business. It 
seems to me like a fine game of skill that calls for 
all your wits, and there is enough danger in it to 
make it absorbing.” 


ANTHONY JOHN 111 

Mr. Mowbray nodded. “You’ve got the right 
idea,” he said. “You’ve almost repeated word for 
word a speech I once heard my father make. It 
was he who first thought of coal in the valley and 
took the risk of getting all the land between 
Donniston and Copley into his own hands before a 
sod was turned. He’d have died a pauper if his 
instinct had proved wrong. 

“We could do with a few more like him in Mills- 
borough,” he went on. “Lord! The big things 
that are waiting to be done. I used to think about 
them. If it wasn’t for the croaking old fools that 
get in your way and haven’t eyes to see the sun at 
midday! It would take the patience of Job and 
the labours of Hercules to move them.” He 
poured himself out another glass of port and 
sipped it for a while in silence. 

“What’s your idea of a salary?” he suddenly 
asked. “Supposing I did find an opening for 
you.” 

Anthony looked at him. He was still sipping his 
port. Anthony had the conviction that Mr. Mow¬ 
bray would, if the figure were left to him, suggest 
a hundred a year. He could not explain why. 
Maybe some forgotten talk with Edward had left 
this impression on his mind, or maybe it was pure 
guess work. 


112 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“Eighty pounds a year, sir, I was thinking of, to 
begin with,” he answered. 

The firm of Mowbray and Cousins acted for most 
of the older inhabitants of Millsborough, and Mrs. 
Newt was amongst them. Mr. Mowbray had had 
one or two interviews with Anthony in connection 
with his aunt’s affairs and had formed a high 
opinion of his acumen and shrewdness. The price 
he had just got his aunt for her bit of land in Moor 
End Lane, and the way he had played one would-be 
purchaser against another had, in particular, sug¬ 
gested to Mr. Mowbray’s thinking a touch of 
genius. 

“We’ll say a hundred,” said Mr. Mowbray, “to 
begin with. What happens afterwards will de¬ 
pend upon yourself.” 

“It’s awfully kind of you, sir,” said Anthony. 
“I won’t try to thank you—in words.” 

He had been sure that Mr. Mowbray would insist 
upon his own figure. Mr. Mowbray liked doing 
fine, generous things that commanded admiration. 
But he was really grateful. 

Mr. Mowbray had risen. He laid a kindly hand 
on Anthony’s shoulder. 

“I should like you to get on and be helpful to 
me,” he said. “Edward’s a dreamer, as you know. 


ANTHONY JOHN 113 

I should like to think there would be always some¬ 
one capable and reliable to give him a hand.” 

Edward had not returned home for the mid¬ 
summer vacation. Betty had met him in London 
and they had made an extended tour on the Con¬ 
tinent. Anthony had not seen him for over a year 
when they met a few days before Christmas. He 
looked ill. Oxford did not agree with him; he 
found it enervating, but he thought he would get ac¬ 
climatized. He had been surprised at Anthony’s 
having been eager to enter his father’s office. 
From their talks he had gathered that Anthony was 
bent upon becoming a business man. He had ex¬ 
pected him to try for a place in one of the great 
steel works or a manufacturer’s office 

“Your grandfather didn’t make his money out 
of being a solicitor,” explained Anthony. “Your 
father was telling me only the other day; it was he 
who set going all the new schemes; they were his 
idea. He got together the money for them and 
controlled them. You see, being the leading solic¬ 
itor of Millsborough, he was in touch with the right 
people and knew all that was going on behind the 
scenes. Millsborough was only a little place then, 
compared to what it is now. If your father he 
checked himself and changed the words that had 


114 


ANTHONY JOHN 


been upon his lips—“cared to take the trouble he 
could be a millionaire before he died.” 

“I’m glad he doesn’t,” laughed Edward. “I 
hate millionaires.” 

Betty was with them. They were returning 
home from a walk upon the moors. Edward had 
clamoured for wind. According to him you 
wouldn’t get it in Oxford. It was twilight, and 
they had reached the point where Millsborough lay 
stretched out before them. 

“It depends upon what use you make of it,” Betty 
chimed in. “Money is a weapon. You can use 
it for conquering, winning more and more for 
yourself; or you can use it for freeing the 
chained, protecting the weak, fighting for the op¬ 
pressed.” 

“Oh, yes; I know the theory,” replied Edward. 
“Robin Hood. You take it from the rich and give 
it to the poor. But Robin Hood must first feast 
with his followers; that’s only fair. And must put 
by a bit for a rainy day; that’s only common pru¬ 
dence. And then Little John puts in his claims, 
and dear old Friar Tuck. Mustn’t forget Friar 
Tuck or the blessing of God won’t be with us next 
time. And Maid Marion must have a new kirtle 
and a ribbon or two to tie up her bonny brown hair. 
And one or two things Robin wants for himself. 


ANTHONY JOHN 115 

By the time it’s all over there’s nothing left for 
the poor.” 

Anthony laughed. But Betty took it seriously. 

“You dream of the future,” she said to her 
brother. “I want to help the people now. A rich 
man—especially if he were a good business man— 
could lay the foundations of a new world here in 
Millsborough tomorrow. He wouldn’t have to 
wait for other people. He could build healthy 
pleasant houses for the workers. I’m not thinking 
of charity. That’s why I want the business man 
who would go to work sensibly and economically; 
turn them out at rents that the people could afford. 
I know it can be done. I’ve gone into it. He 
could build them clubs to take the place of the 
public-houses where they could meet each other, 
read and talk, play games, have concerts and 
dances. Why shouldn’t there be a theatre? Look 
at the money they spend on drink. It’s just to get 
away from their wretched homes. Offer them 
something worth having—something they’d really 
like and enjoy, and they’d spend their money 
on that. I wouldn’t have anything started that 
couldn’t be made to pay its own way in the long 
run. If it can’t do that it isn’t real. It isn’t going 
to last. He could open shops, sell food and clothes 
to the people at fair prices; could start factories 



116 


ANTHONY JOHN 


that would pay decent wages and where the hands 
would share in the profits. It’s no use kind, well- 
meaning people attempting these things that don’t 
understand business. They make a muddle of it; 
and then everybody points to it and says, ‘See what 
a failure it was!’ It isn’t the dreamers—the 
theorists—that will change the world. Life’s a 
business; it wants the business man to put it right. 
He hasn’t got to wait for revolutions, nor even for 
Parliaments. He can take the world as it is, shape 
it to fine ends with the tools that are already in his 
hands. One day one of them will rise up and show 
the way. It just wants a big man to set it going, 
that’s all.” 

They had reached the outskirts of the town, 
where their ways parted. Anthony had promised 
his mother to be home to tea. The Tetteridges were 
away; and she was giving a party in the drawing¬ 
room to some poor folks who had been her neigh¬ 
bours in Snelling’s Row. Edward was a few steps 
ahead. Betty held out her hand. She was trem¬ 
bling and seemed as if she would fall. Anthony 
put an arm round her and held her up. 

“How strong you are,” she said. 

The office of Mowbray and Cousins occupied a 
high, square, red brick house in the centre of the 


ANTHONY JOHN 


117 


town facing the church. Anthony was given a desk 
in the vestibule leading to Mr. Mowbray’s private 
room on the first floor, with its three high, dome- 
topped windows. It seemed that Mr. Mowbray in¬ 
tended to employ him rather as a private secretary 
than a clerk. He kept Mr. Mowbray’s papers in 
order, reminded him of his appointments, wrote 
such letters as Mr. Mowbray chose to answer him¬ 
self. Mr. Mowbray had never taken kindly to dic¬ 
tating; he was too impatient. Anthony, with the 
help of the letter book, soon learned the trick of 
elaborating his brief instructions into proper form. 
It was always Anthony that Mr. Mowbray selected 
to accompany him on outside business; to see that 
the bag contained all necessary documents; to look 
up trains; arrange things generally. Mr. Mowbray 
himself had a distaste for detail. It was plain 
to Anthony, notwithstanding his inexperience, that 
his position was unique. He was prepared for 
jealousy; but for some reason that at first he did 
not grasp Mr. Mowbray’s favouritism was regarded 
throughout the office as in the natural order of 
things. Even old Abraham Johnson, the head 
clerk, who had the reputation of being somewhat of 
a tyrant, was friendly to him from the beginning. 
It was assumed as a matter of course that he was 


118 ANTHONY JOHN 

studying for the law and would later on take out his 
articles. 

“I meant to do so when I first entered the office,” 
old Mr. Johnson said to him one day. They were 
walking home together. Mr. Johnson also resided 
in Bruton Square. He was a bachelor and lived 
with an unmarried sister. “Forty-three years ago 
that was, in the first Mr. Mowbray’s time. But 
office hours were longer then; and when I got home 
I was pretty tired. And what with one thing and 
another- Besides, I hadn’t your incentive.” 

He laughed, and seemed to expect Anthony to 
understand the joke. 

“Come to me,” he added, “if you get tied up at 
any time. I expect I’ll be able to help you.” 

They were all quite right. He was studying for 
the law. But it surprised him they should all 
assume it as a matter of course. 

He had intended telling Edward himself and 
asking his help. But Edward anticipated him. 

“Fm glad you’re with the Gov’nor,” he said. It 
was a day or two before his return to Oxford. He 
had come to the office with messages from his 
father, who was in bed with a headache. “I should 
have suggested it myself if I’d known you were 
looking at it that way. And Betty’s pleased,” he 
added. “She thinks it is good for the dad, that 



ANTHONY JOHN 


119 


you will steady him.” He laughed. “And now 
that you have begun I want you to peg away and 
take out your articles. I’ll write out all you’ve 
got to do and leave it with Betty if I don’t see you 
again. And if there are any books you want that 
you can’t find in the office, let me know, and I’ll 
send them to you.” 

“Right you are,” said Anthony. “I’ll go ahead. 
The only thing that worries me is that you’re all of 
you making it so easy for me. It’s spoiling my 
character.” He looked up with a smile. Edward 
was sitting on a comer of his father’s desk swing¬ 
ing his legs. “You’ve been a ripping friend to me 
ever since you first spoke to me in Bull Lane, the 
day I fought young Penlove.” He spoke with an 
emotion unusual to him. 

Edward flushed. “There are only two people 
I really care for,” he said, “you and Betty. But it 
isn’t only of you I’m thinking. If I come into the 
business it’ll be jolly our being together. And if 
not-” He paused. 

“What do you mean?” asked Anthony. 
“You’re not thinking of chucking it? Your 
father’s reckoning on you. That’s why he’s never 
taken a partner; he told me so.” 

“Of course I shall come into it,” Edward 
answered, “bar accidents.” 



120 


ANTHONY JOHN 


He was looking out of the window. Anthony 
followed his gaze, but the cold grey square was 
empty save for a couple of cabs that stood there on 
the rank. 

4 ‘But what could happen?” persisted Anthony. 

“Oh, nothing,” Edward answered. “It’s only 
another way of saying 6 Deo volente. 9 It used to be 
added to all public proclamations once upon a 
time. We’re not as pious as we were.” He took 
up his hat and stick and held out his hand. “Don’t 
forget about the books,” he said. “They’re expen¬ 
sive to buy, and I’ve done with most of them.” 

Anthony thanked him and they shook hands. 
JThey never met again. 


CHAPTER IX 


I T was just before Easter that Edward wrote 
his father and Betty that he had developed 
diabetes and was going for a few weeks to a 
nursing home at Malvern. The doctor hoped that 
with care he would soon be much better. In any 
case he should return to Oxford sometime during 
the summer term. He expected to be done with it 
by Christmas. 

To Anthony he wrote a different letter. The 
doctor had, of course, talked cheerfully; it was the 
business of a doctor to hold out hope; but he had 
the feeling himself that his chance was a poor one. 
He should return to Oxford, if the doctor did not 
absolutely forbid it, for Betty’s sake. He did not 
want to alarm her. And, of course, he might pull 
through. If not, his idea was that Anthony should 
push on with his studies at high speed and become 
as soon as possible a junior partner in the firm. It 
was evident from his letter that he and Betty were 
in agreement on this matter and that she was pre¬ 
paring the way with her father. Mr. Mowbray’s 
appetite for old port was increasing. He was 

paying less and less attention to the business. It 

121 


122 


ANTHONY JOHN 


would soon need some one to pull it together again. 

“Betty likes you, I know,” he wrote, “and thinks 
no end of you. I used to dream of you and she 
marrying; and when the doctor told me, my first 
idea was to write to you both and urge it; it seemed 
to me you were so fitted for one another. But then 
it came to me that we are strangers to one another, 
even to our nearest and dearest; we do not know 
what is in one another’s hearts. I feared you 
might think it your duty and might do it out of 
mere gratitude or even from some lesser motive. I 
know that in any case you would be true and good 
and kind; and a little while ago I should have 
deemed that sufficient. But now I am not sure. It 
may be that love is the only thing of importance, 
and that to think we can do without it is to imagine 
that we can do without God. You will be surprised 
at my writing in this strain, but ever since I began 
to think I seem to have been trying to discover a 
meaning in life; and it seems to me that without 
God it is all meaningless and stupid. But by feel¬ 
ing that we are part of God and knowing we shall 
always be with Him, working for Him, that then it 
all becomes interesting and quite exciting. And 
the thing we’ve got to keep on learning is to love, 
because that is the great secret. Forgive me for 
being prosy, but I have nothing else to do just now 


ANTHONY JOHN 


123 


but walk about the hills and think. If you and 
Betty should get to care for one another, and I 
should come to hear of it, I shall be tremendously 
delighted. But in any case I know you will take 
my place and look after her. People think her 
the embodiment of capability and common sense. 
And so she is where others are concerned. But 
when it comes to managing for herself she’s a 
duffer.” 

He added that he would write again and keep 
Anthony informed, so that before the end they 
could have some talk together. 

Anthony read the letter again. His friendship 
with Edward meant more to him than he had 
thought. It was as if a part of himself were being 
torn away from him, and the pain that he felt sur¬ 
prised him. Evidently he was less self-centred, 
less independent of others than he had deemed him¬ 
self. Outwardly his life would go on as before. 
He would scheme, manoeuvre, fight and conquer. 
But there was that other Anthony, known only to 
himself, of whom even he himself had been aware 
only dimly and at intervals: Anthony the dreamer. 
It seemed that he too had been growing up, that 
he too had hopes, desires. He it was who had 
lost his friend and would not be comforted. And 
almost it seemed as if from his sorrow he had 


124 


ANTHONY JOHN 


gained strength. For as time went by this 
Anthony, the dreamer, came more often, even in¬ 
terfering sometimes with business. 

He would have liked to have gone over to 
Malvern and have seen Edward. Betty was there. 
But he was wanted in the office. So often Mr. 
Mowbray had one of his headaches and did not 
care to leave the house, and then it was always 
Anthony he would send for, and they would work 
in the library. And of late he had taken to absent¬ 
ing himself for days at a time, being called away, 
as he would explain, upon private affairs. And to 
Anthony alone he would confide his address, in 
case it was “absolutely necessary” for him to be 
recalled. Anthony had his suspicions where these 
journeys ended. He was worried. Betty had re¬ 
turned from Malvern, Edward having assured her 
that he was much better. Anthony, looking at the 
matter from all sides, came to the conclusion that he 
ought to tell her. It was bound to come out sooner 
or later. 

Betty was not surprised. 

“It’s what I’ve been fearing,” she said. “It was 
Ted that kept him straight. He’s always been a 
good father to both of us. He wanted Ted to suc¬ 
ceed to a sound business; but now this blow has 
come he doesn’t seem to care.” 


ANTHONY JOHN 125 

“But Ted is going to succeed to it,” replied 
Anthony without looking up. 

“I wish you could persuade him of that,” she 
said. “I’ve tried; but I only make him excited. 
He says it’s God’s punishment on him for his sins 
and apparently argues from that that he may just 
as well go on sinning. If Ted could get well 
enough to come home, if only for a few days, it 
might make all the difference.” 

“Don’t you think he could?” suggested Anthony. 

“Not to Millsborough,” she answered. She 
glanced out of the window at the everlasting smoke 
that was rolling slowly up the valley towards the 
sea. “I wanted him to take The Abbey—Sir 
William Coomber’s old place up on the moor—it 
is still to let. But this woman seems to have 
got firmly hold of him at last. My fear is that 
she’ll marry him. Poor dad! He’s such a 

kid,” 

“Has he known her long?” asked Anthony. 

“She was our governess when Ted and I were 
children,” Betty answered. “She was a pretty 
woman, but I always hated her. It was instinct, I 
suppose. She married soon after she left us, and 
went back to France, but returned to London when 
her husband died about six years ago. I’d rather 
anything than that he should marry her. To see 


126 ANTHONY JOHN 

her sleeping in mother’s room! I couldn’t stand 
that. I should-” 

She stopped abruptly. She was trembling. 

“I don’t think there’s any fear of that,” said 
Anthony. 4 ‘He still loves your mother. I’m not 
talking merely to please you. It’s the best thing 
about him. And he loves you. He’d think of all 
that.” 

“He didn’t think of it when she lived,” Betty 

answered. 

They were in the long dining-room and had just 
finished dinner. Mr. Mowbray had telegraphed 
that he was coming home that evening and would 
want to see Anthony. But he had not yet arrived. 
She was looking at the portrait of her mother over 
the great mantel-piece. 

“If ever I marry,” she said, “I shall pray God to 
send me a man who will like me and think of me 
as a good friend and comrade.” 

They neither spoke for a while. 

“It was a love-match on both sides, between your 
father and your mother, wasn’t it?” asked Anthony. 

“No woman ever had a more perfect lover, so my 
mother told me,” she answered with a curious 
laugh. “For the first five years. I remember 
waking in the night. My mother was kneeling by 
my bed with her head buried in her arms. I didn’t 


( 



ANTHONY JOHN 


127 


understand. I supposed it was something grown up 
people did. I went to sleep again; and when I 
opened my eyes again it was dawn. She was still 
there. I called to her, and she raised her head 
and looked at me. It was such a strange face. I 
didn’t know it was my mother.” 

Anthony looked at the picture. Betty was grow¬ 
ing more like her every day. 

“I wonder if we would be better without it,” he 
said. “All the great love stories of the world: 
they’ve all been tragedies. Even the people round 
about us whom we know; it always seems to end in 
a muddle. Is every man bound to go through it?” 
he added with a laugh. “Or could a man keep out 
of it, do you think?” 

“I think a strong man might,” she answered. 
“It’s weak men that make the best lovers.” 

“There have been strong men who have loved,” 
suggested Anthony. 

“Yes,” she admitted. “Those are the great love 
stories that end in tragedy.” 

There came the sound of carriage wheels. 

“I expect that’s dad,” she said. 

She had risen. Passing, she lightly laid her 
hand on him. 

“Don’t ever fall in love,” she said. “It would 
spoil you.” 


128 


ANTHONY JOHN 


Mr. Mowbray had aged of late, but with his 
white, waving hair and fine features was still a 
handsome man. Old-fashioned clients, shaking 
their heads, had gone elsewhere. But new busi¬ 
ness had come to the firm. Anthony had taken his 
employer for a walk one summer’s evening along 
the river’s bank, and had talked him into the idea 
of turning Millsborough into a seaport town. “It 
eould be done, with money.” The river could be 
widened, deepened; locks could be built. The 
traffic from the valley that now went north or south 
could be retained for Millsborough. The marvel 
was that nobody had ever thought of it before. 

“We’ve all been asleep here for the last quarter 
of a century,” Mr Mowbray said, laying his arm 
affectionately on Anthony’s shoulder. “You’ll 
wake us up.” 

Engineers had been consulted and had sent in 
their reports. The scheme was practicable; Mow¬ 
bray and Cousins was still a jiame to conjure with 
in business circles. The enterprise had been 
launched, had forced its way by its sheer merit. 
Not only could a handsome dividend be safely 
reckoned on; it would be of enormous benefit to 
Millsborough as a whole. 

“Mowbray’s coming back,” they said in Mills¬ 
borough. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


129 


Anthony’s share was to be a junior partnership. 
It was Mr. Mowbray who was the more impatient. 
Anthony promised to be through before the long 
vacation. 

“If dear Ted comes back,” said Mr. Mowbray, 
“he’ll be glad to find you here. If God is hard on 
me for my sins we must make our fortune for 
Betty’s sake.” 

Edward had gone to Switzerland for the summer. 
Anthony had hoped to see him before he went, but 
examinations had interfered; and Edward himself 
had been more hopeful. He had written that in 
spite of all he felt he was going to live. His mind 
was getting lighter. He was forming plans for the 
future. And then suddenly there had come a 
three-word telegram: 

“I want Betty.” 

Mr. Mowbray was away when it came. He had 
gone, without saying a word to any one, the day be¬ 
fore, and had not as usual left Anthony any ad¬ 
dress. He did not return until the end of the week, 
and then it was all over. Betty had wired that she 
was bringing the body back with her. Mr. Mow¬ 
bray broke down completely when Anthony told 
him, throwing himself upon his knees and sobbing 
like a child. 

“Betty will hate me,” he moaned through his 


130 


ANTHONY JOHN 


tears, “and it will serve me right. I seem to do 
nothing but hurt those I love. I loved my wife and 
I broke her heart. There is no health in me.” 

Edward was buried in St. Aldys’ Churchyard be¬ 
side his mother. Anthony had seen the ex-gover¬ 
ness and made all things clear to her. Mr. Mow¬ 
bray seemed inclined to settle down to business a 
reformed character. Anthony had taken out his 
articles and had been admitted into partnership, 
though the firm would still remain Mowbray and 
Cousins. 

It was an evening in late September. Mr. Mow¬ 
bray and Betty had gone abroad. Anthony, leav¬ 
ing the office earlier than usual, climbed the hill to 
the moors. He took the road he had climbed with 
his mother when he was a child and had thought he 
was going to see God. He could see the vision of 
his own stout little legs pounding away in front of 
him and his mother’s stooping back and her short 
silk jacket, remnant of better days, that she had al¬ 
ways worn on these occasions. If his aunt’s 
theories were correct, then surely the Lord must 
have approved of him and of all his ways from his 
youth upwards. At school, in the beginning, he 
had put himself out to make a friend of Edward 
Mowbray, foreseeing the possible advantages. So 
also with Betty. He had tried to make her like 


ANTHONY JOHN 131 

him. It had not been easy at first, but he had 
studied her. The love for Edward that had come 
to him had been an aftergrowth. It belonged to 
Anthony the dreamer rather than to the real 
Anthony. 

With Betty also he had succeeded. She liked 
him, cared for him. That she did not love him he 
was glad. If she had loved him he would have 
hesitated, deeming it an unfair bargain. As it 
was, he could with a clear conscience ask her to be 
his wife. And she would consent; he had no doubt 
of that. Old Mr. Mowbray would welcome the 
match. He was reckoning on it as assuring Betty’s 
future. Anthony would succeed to the business, 
and behind him there would be the old man’s money 
to help forward the plans with which his brain was 
teeming for the benefit of Millsborough and him¬ 
self. The memory of what Edward had written 
him about love came back to him. But Edward 
had always been a dreamer. Life was a business. 
One got on better by keeping love and religion out 
of it. He and Betty liked each other. They 
would get on together. Her political enthusiasms 
did not frighten him. All that would be in his own 
hands. When success had arrived—when his 
schemes had matured and had brought him wealth 
and power—then it would be time enough to ven- 


132 


ANTHONY JOHN 


ture on experiments. Prudently planned, they 
need not involve much risk. They would bring 
him fame, honour. To the successful business man 
all prizes were within reach. 

His walk had brought him to The Abbey, now un¬ 
tenanted. The fancy that one day it might be his 
home had often come to him. His mother had 
been a parlourmaid there. He pictured the per¬ 
fect joy that it would give her to sit in its yellow 
drawing-room and reach out her hand to ring the 
bell. 

He passed through the rose garden. Betty 
would love the rose garden. Roses she had 
made her hobby. But the air of Millsborough did 
not suit them. Here they were still wonderful in 
spite of neglect. He made a mental note to speak 
about it to Hobbs, the gardener. He knew what 
the answer would be. Twice that summer Hobbs 
had walked down to Millsborough with a tale of 
despair; and twice Anthony had written to Sir 
Harry Coomber. But what was a penurious 
baronet to do? Would Mowbray and Cousins 
never succeed in finding him a tenant? And so 
on. Anthony determined to provided Hobbs with 
help on his own responsibility. The rose garden, 
even if everything else had to go, must be pre¬ 
served. 


ANTHONY JOHN 133 

He passed on to the flower garden. It had al¬ 
ways been Hobbs’ special pride. It had been 
well cared for and was now a (blaze of colour. It 
lay between two old grey walls that had once en¬ 
closed the cloisters; and beyond one saw the great 
cedars that had been brought and planted there 
by Herbert de Combles on his return from the 
Crusades. 

A yew hedge in which there was a wicket gate 
separated the two gardens. He paused by the gate 
with his arms resting upon it and watched the 
lengthening of the shadows. 

And as he looked a girl came slowly up the path 
towards him. 

He knew her quite well, but could not for the 
moment recollect where he had first seen her. 

And then he remembered. It had been an after¬ 
noon back in the early spring. Sir Harry, plead¬ 
ing that he was too much of an invalid to venture 
out, had written asking Mr. Mowbray to come up to 
The Abbey to see him on business, and Mr. Mow¬ 
bray, pleading engagements, had sent Anthony. 

It had merely been to talk about the letting of the 
house. Sir Harry and his family had decided to 
live abroad for the present and were leaving almost 
immediately. Anthony had sat by the window 
making notes, and Sir Harry, giving unnecessary 


134 


ANTHONY JOHN 


instructions, had been walking up and down the 
room with his hands behind him. The door had 
sprung open and a girl had burst into the room. 
Anthony had hardly had time to notice her. She 
had not expected a stranger and was evidently in 
doubt whether she was to be introduced or not. 
Her father had solved the problem for her by tell¬ 
ing her to run away and not come back. And if 
she did to come in more quietly next time and not 
like a whirlwind. And she had made a grimace 
and had gone out again. 

He had only seen her for those few seconds, and 
it rather surprised him that he recollected her so 
minutely, even to the dimple in her chin. 

She came nearer and nearer. He was wonder¬ 
ing whether to speak to her when for the first time 
she looked up and their eyes met. She was beside 
a great group of delphiniums. He noticed that 
their deep blue was almost the same colour as the 
dress she was wearing. She must have taken a 
swift step behind them during some instant when he 
had taken his eyes off her. He waited a while, ex¬ 
pecting her to emerge, but she did not do so, and 
for him to linger there might seem impertinence. 

On his way back, past the side entrance to the 
house, he came upon old Wilkins, the caretaker; he 
had once been the coachman. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


135 


“When did the family come back?” Anthony 
asked him. It was odd that Sir Harry had toot 
written. It might be that they had returned to 
England only for a short visit and had not thought 
it worth while. 

The man stared at him. “What do you mean?” 
he said. “There’s nobody here.” 

“But I’ve just seen her,” said Anthony. “Miss 
Coomber.” He wished the next moment that he 
had not said it, for the old man’s face clearly 
showed that he thought Anthony mad. 

“It must be her spirit, Mr. Anthony,” he said, 
“that you’ve seen. Her body ain’t here.” 

Anthony felt himself flushing. He laughed. 

“I must have been dreaming,” he said. 

“That’s the only explanation I can see,” said 
Mr. Wilkins. He wished Anthony good afternoon 
and turned into the house. Anthony heard him 
calling to his wife. 

It was dark before Anthony reached home. 


CHAPTER X 


M RS. Tetteridge was a pretty piquante 
lady. Her grey eyes no longer looked 
out upon the world with childish 
wonder. On the contrary they suggested that she 
now knew all about it, had found on closer inspec¬ 
tion that there really was nothing to wonder about. 
A commonplace world with well-defined high-roads 
that one did well to follow, keeping one’s eyes in 
front of one, suppressing all inclination towards 
alluring byways leading to waste lands and barren 
spaces. 

Tetteridge’s Preparatory and Commercial School 
had outgrown its beginnings. Mrs. Tetteridge had 
no objection to the “ambitious poor,” provided they 
were willing and able to pay increased school fees 
and to dress their sons in conformity with the 
standards of respectability. But they no longer 
formed the chief support of the Rev. Doctor Tet¬ 
teridge’s Academy. The professional and com¬ 
mercial classes of Millsborough and its neighbour¬ 
hood had discovered Mr. Tetteridge and were in the 
process of annexing him. Naturally they would 

prefer that he should get rid of the ragtail and the 

136 



ANTHONY JOHN 


137 


bobtail that had flocked round him on his first 
coming. The Rev. Dr. Tetteridge, interviewing 
parents, found himself in face of the problem that 
had troubled the elder Miss Warmington when, 
years ago, in the very same room, she had sat over 
against Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, while stealing side 
glances at a self-possessed young imp perched on 
a horsehair chair with one leg tucked underneath 
him. 

The Rev. Dr. Tetteridge was sorry—had known 
himself the difficulty of meeting tailors’ bills. But 
corduroys, patched eoats and paper collars! 
There were parents to be considered. A certain 
tone of appearance and behaviour must be main¬ 
tained. The difficulty was not always confined to 
clothes. The children of agitators—of fathers 
who spoke openly and often against the existing 
order of society! In Millsborough there were 
many such. Unfortunate that the opinions of the 
fathers should be visited on the children. But so 
it was. Middle-class youth must be protected from 
possible contamination. The Rev. Dr. Tetteridge, 
remembering youthful speeches of his own at local 
debating societies, would flush and stammer. Mr. 
Tetteridge himself was not altogether averse to 
freedom of speech. But again the parents! The 
ambitious poor would give coarse expression to 


138 


ANTHONY JOHN 


contemptuous anger and depart, dragging their 
puzzled offspring with them. Some of the things 
they said would hurt the Rev. Dr. Tetteridge by 
reason of their truth, especially things said by 
those among the poor who had known him when he 
was Mr. Emanuel Tetteridge, to whom success had 
not yet come. 

Mr. Emanuel Tetteridge had thought to help the 
poor. In what way better than by educating their 
sons? For which purpose, it would seem, he had 
been granted special gifts. It was the thing that 
compensated him for giving up his dreams. 
Maybe the poor, not knowing the etiquette of these 
matters, might have overlooked his playing of the 
fiddle; perhaps, lacking sense of propriety, might 
have tolerated even odes to “Irene.” 

An eccentric schoolmaster, an oddity of a school¬ 
master, content with what the world called poverty 
so that he might live his own life, dream out his 
dreams, might have done this. If only he hadn’t 
got on. If only success—a strong-minded lady— 
was not gripping him so firmly by the arm, talking 
incessantly, without giving him a moment to think 
of the wonderful place to which she was leading 
him: a big house of many rooms, strongly built and 
solidly furnished, surrounded by a high brick wall 
pierced by a great iron gate; with men and women 


ANTHONY JOHN 


139 


in uniform to see to his feeding and his clothing 
and his sleeping. At the proper times he would 
go to church. There would be a certain number 
of hours apportioned to him for exercise and even 
for recreation of an approved nature. And there 
would be times when his friends could come to see 
him. It had sounded to Emanuel Tetteridge as the 
description of a prison; but Mrs. Tetteridge had 
assured him it was a palace. 

What further impressed him with the idea that it 
was to prison he was going was the information 
broken to him by Mrs. Tetteridge that before he 
could enter there he would have to take off his 
tweed suit and put on a black coat that buttoned 
close up to the neck, with a collar that fastened be¬ 
hind. Such, until his term of service was ended, 
would be his distinctive garb. He had put up op¬ 
position. But Mrs Tetteridge had cried, and when 
she cried the hardness went out of her eyes and she 
looked very pretty and pathetic; and Tetteridge had 
felt himself a brute and a traitor to love. So the 
day had come when he had taken off his old tweed 
suit forever and had put on the long black coat that 
buttoned round the neck. And Mrs. Tetteridge 
had come to his assistance with the collar and had 
laughed and clapped her pretty hands and kissed 
him. 


140 


ANTHONY JOHN 


But when she had left him and the door was 
closed he had gone down on his knees and had 
asked God to forgive him for his hypocrisy. He 
had knelt long and the tears had come; and when 
he rose it seemed to him that God, looking in, had 
smiled at him a little sadly and had laid a hand on 
him, calling him “poor lad.” So that it remained 
with him that God understood what a difficult thing 
is life, and would, perhaps, give him another 
chance. 

The time had come, so Mrs. Tetteridge had de¬ 
cided, for a move onward. The final destination, 
that country mansion standing in its own grounds, 
that she had determined upon, was still not yet in 
sight. Something half-way was her present idea, a 
large, odd-shaped house to the south of St. Aldys 
Church. It had once been a convent, but had been 
adapted to domestic purposes by an eccentric old 
East India trader who had married three wives. 
All his numerous progeny lived with him, and he 
had needed a roomy place. It was too big and too 
ugly for most people and had been empty for years. 
It belonged to a client of Mowbray’s and it occurred 
to Mrs. Tetteridge that he might consider even an 
inadequate rent better than nothing at all. At her 
request Anthony met her there one afternoon with 
the key. The rusty iron gate squeaked when 


ANTHONY JOHN 141 

Anthony pushed it open. They crossed a paved 
yard and mounted a, flight of stone steps. The lock 
of the great oak door growled and grated when 
Anthony tried to turn the key. But it yielded at 
last, and ia cold chill air crept up from the cellars 
and wrapped them round. Mrs. Tetteridge had 
difficulty in hiding her enthusiasm. The long 
tunnel-like rooms on the ground floor might have 
been built for class rooms. On the first floor was 
the great drawing-room. It would serve for re¬ 
ceptions and speech-making. There were bed¬ 
rooms for a dozen boarders if they had luck. The 
high-walled garden behind was bare save for de¬ 
crepit trees and overgrown bushes that could easily 
be removed. A few cartloads of gravel would 
transform it into an ideal playground. They re¬ 
turned to the ground floor. At the end of the stone 
corridor Mrs. Tetteridge found a door she had not 
previously noticed. It led to a high vaulted room 
with a huge black marble mantelpiece representing 
two elephants supporting a small-sized temple. 
Opposite was a high-arched window overlooking the 
churchyard. 

Mrs. Tetteridge surveyed it approvingly. 

“This will be Emy’s study,” she said in a tone of 
decision. She ,was speaking to herself. She had 
forgotten Anthony. 


142 ANTHONY JOHN 

Anthony was leaning against one of the 
elephants. 

“Poor devil!” he said. 

Mrs. Tetteridge looked up. There was a curious 
little smile about her pretty mouth. 

“You don’t like me,” she said to Anthony. 

“I should,” answered Anthony, “quite well, if I 
didn’t like Emy.” 

She came to the other end of the mantelpiece, 
resting her hand upon it. 

“I’ve got you here alone,” she said with a laugh, 
“and I’m going to have it out with you. I’m sorry 
you don’t like me because I like you very much. 
But that isn’t the important thing. I don’t want 
you taking Emy’s side against me. You’ve got 
great influence over him, and I’m afraid of you.” 

Anthony was about to answer. She made a 
gesture. 

“Let me finish,” she said, “then we shall both 
know what we’re up against. You think I’m spoil¬ 
ing his life, robbing him of his dreams. What 
were they, put into plain language? To compose a 
little music; to write a little poetry. He’d never 
have earned enough to live on. Perhaps before he 
died he might have composed something out of 
which a music publisher might have pocketed 
thousands. He might have written poems that 


ANTHONY JOHN 143 

would have brought him fame when it was too late. 
He’d never have made any real solid success. At 
that kind of work I couldn’t help him; and, left to 
himself, he isn’t the sort that ever does get on. At 
this work of schoolmastering I can help him. He 
has the talent and I have the business capacity. 
I’ve no use for dreamers. My father was a 
dreamer. He discovered things in chemistry that, 
if he had followed them up, would have made his 
fortune. They bored him. He was out for dis¬ 
covering a means of changing the atmosphere. I 
don’t remember the details. You released a gas, 
or you eliminated a gas, or you introduced a gas. 
It was all about gases. That’s the only thing 
I do remember. People instead of breathing in 
depression and weariness breathed in light-hearted¬ 
ness and strength. It sounds like a fairy story, but 
if you’d listened to him you’d have been persuaded 
it was coming, that it was only a question of time, 
and that when the secret was discovered the whole 
human race would be feeling like ( a prisoner who 
had escaped from a dungeon. That was his dream. 
And to him it was possible. It was for the sake of 
that dream that he took the position of science 
master at St. Aldys at a hundred and sixty a year. 
It gave him leisure for research. And we children 
paid the price for it. Both my brothers were 


144 


ANTHONY JOHN 


clever boys. Given the opportunity, they could 
have won their way in the world. One of them is 
a commercial traveller, and the other, as you know, 
a clerk in your office at eighty pounds a year. If 
he behaves himself and works hard he may, when 
he’s fifty, be your managing clerk at three hun¬ 
dred.” 

She came closer to him and looked straight into 
his eyes. 

“He’s there,” she said, “inside you—the 
dreamer. You know it and so do I,” she laughed. 
“I’ve looked at him too often. You’ve had sense 
enough to chain him up and throw away the key. 
Take care he doesn’t escape. If he does he’ll take 
possession of you, and all your strength and clever¬ 
ness will be at his service. He’ll ride you without 
pity. He’ll ride you to death.” 

She put her hands upon his shoulders and gave 
him a little shake. 

“I’m talking to you for your good,” she said. 
“I like you. Don’t ever let him get the mastery 
over you. If he does, God help you.” 

She looked at her watch. 

“I must be off,” she said. 

Anthony laughed. 

“So like a woman,” he said; “thinks that when 


ANTHONY JOHN 145 

she has said all that she’s got to say that there’s 
nothing more to be said.” 

“You shall have your say another time,” she 
promised him. 

Anthony kept on the house in Bruton Square. It 
was larger than they wanted now the Tetteridges 
were gone, but he liked the old-fashioned square 
with its ancient rookery among the tall elms. He 
let the big classroom for an office to a young archi¬ 
tect who had lately come to Millsborough. His 
aunt was delighted with the change. She had 
hated Mrs. Tetteridge, who had disapproved of her 
sitting on sunny afternoons on a Windsor chair out¬ 
side the front door. It had always been her habit. 
And why what was harmless in Moor End Lane 
should be sinful in Bruton Square she could not 
understand. She was growing feeble. It was want 
of work according to her own idea, which was prob¬ 
ably correct. As a consequence she *was looking 
forward to heaven with less eagerness. 

“I used to think it would be just lovely,” she con¬ 
fessed to Anthony one day, “sitting about and 
doing nothing for ever and ever. It sounds un¬ 
grateful, but upon my word I’m not so sure that 
I’ll enjoy it.” 

“Uncle did believe in God,” said Anthony. “I 


146 


ANTHONY JOHN 


had a talk with him before he died. ‘There must 
be somebody bossing it all,’ he said. His hope was 
that God might think him of some use and find him 
a job.” 

“He was a good man, your uncle,” answered his 
aunt. “I used to worry myself about him. But 
perhaps, after all, the Lord ain’t as unreasonable 
as He’s made out to be.” 

Mr. Mowhray was leaving the business more and 
more to Anthony. As a compensation for denial in 
other directions he was allowing himself too much 
old port and the gout was getting hold of him. 
Betty took him abroad as much as possible. 
Travelling interested him, and, away from his old 
cronies, he was easier to manage. He had always 
adored his children, and Betty, in spite of his fail¬ 
ings, could not help being fond of him. Anthony 
knew that so long as her father lived she would 
never marry. Neither was he in any hurry. The 
relationship between them was that of a restful 
comradeship; and marriage could have made but 
little difference. Meanwhile the firm of Mowbray 
and Cousins was prospering. The private business 
was almost entirely in the hands of old Johnson, 
the head clerk. It was to his numerous schemes 
for the building up of Millsborough that Anthony 
devoted himself. The port of Millsborough was al- 


ANTHONY JOHN 147 

ready an accomplished fact and its success assured. 
A syndicate for the construction of an electric tram¬ 
way running from the docks to the farthest end of 
the densely populated valley had already got to 
work. A yet more important project was now in 
Anthony’s mind. Hitherto Millsborough had been 
served by a branch line from a junction fifteen 
miles away. Anthony wanted a new track that 
should cross the river to the west of the new lock 
and, skirting the coast, rejoin the main line beyond 
the moor. It would bring Millsborough on to the 
main line and shorten the distance between London 
and the north by over an hour. It was the name of 
Mowbray that figured upon all documents, but 
Millsborough knew that the brain behind was 
Mowbray’s junior partner, young Strong’nth’arm. 
Millsborough, believing in luck, put its money on 
him. 

The Coomber family had returned to The Abbey 
somewhat unexpectedly. No tenant for the house 
had come forward. Also Sir Harry had come into 
unexpected legacy. It was not much, but with 
economy it would enable them to keep up the old 
place. It had been the home of the Coomber 
family for many generations, and Sir Harry, not 
expecting to live long, was wishful to die there. 

Mr. Mowbray was away, and old Johnson, the 


148 ANTHONY JOHN 

head clerk, had gone up to The Abbey to welcome 
them home and talk a little business. 

“I doubt if they’ll be able to pull through,” he 
said to Anthony on his return to the office. “The 
grounds are all going to rack and ruin, to say noth¬ 
ing about the outbuildings and the farm. Even to 
keep it up as it is will take two thousand a year; 
and it doesn’t seem to me that, after paying the in¬ 
terest on the mortgage, he’ll have as much as that 
left altogether.” 

“What does he say himself?” asked Anthony. 
“Does he grasp it?” 

“ ‘Oh, after me the deluge!’ seems to be his 
idea,” answered old Johnson. “Reckons he isn’t 
going to live for more than two years, and may just 
as well 'live there. Talks of shutting up most of 
the rooms and eking out existence on the produce of 
the kitchen garden,” he laughed. 

“And Lady Coomber?” asked Anthony. 

“Oh, well, he’s fortunate there,” answered John¬ 
son. “Give her a blackbird to sing to her and a 
few flowers to look after and you haven’t got to 
worry about her. Don’t see how they’re going to 
manage about the boy.” 

“He’s in the army, isn’t he?” said Anthony. 

“In the Guards,” answered Johnson. “They 
must be mad. Of course they’ve any amount of 


ANTHONY JOHN 149 

rich connections. But I don’t see their coming 
forward to that extent.” 

“He’ll have to exchange,” suggested Anthony. 
“Get out to India.” 

“Or else they’ll starve themselves to try and keep 
it up,” answered Johnson. “Funny thing, you can 
never get any sense into these old families. It’s 
the inter-breeding, I suppose. Of course, there’s 
the girl. She may perhaps put them on their legs 
again.” 

“By marrying some rich old bug?” said 
Anthony. 

“Or rich young one,” answered Johnson. “I 
don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more lovely. 
I expect that’s why they’ve come back, if the truth 
were told. If her aunt took her up and ran her for 
a season in London there oughtn’t to be much dif¬ 
ficulty.” 

“Except perhaps the girl,” suggested Anthony. 

“Oh! they look at things differently in that 
class,” answered old Johnson. “They’ve got to.” 

The house and shop in Platts Lane where 
Anthony had been bom had been taken over by the 
old jobbing tinker and his half-witted son. The 
old man had never been of much use, but the boy 
had developed into a clever mechanic. Bicycles 
were numerous now in Millsborough, and he had 


150 


ANTHONY JOHN 


gained the reputation of being the best man in the 
town for repairing them and generally putting them 
to rights. A question of repairs to the workshop 
had arisen. The property belonged to a client of 
Mowbray’s, and Mr. Johnson was giving instruc¬ 
tions to a clerk to call at the place on his way back 
from lunch and see what was wanted when Anthony 
entered the room. 

“Fm going that way,” he said. “I’ll call my¬ 
self.” 

Anthony stopped his cab a few streets off. He 
had carefully avoided this neighbourhood of sordid 
streets since the day he and his mother had finally 
left it behind them. The spirit of hopelessness 
seemed brooding there. The narrow grimy house 
where he was bom was unchanged. The broken 
window in the room where his father had died had 
never yet been mended. The square of brown 
paper that he himself had cut out and pasted over 
the hole had worn well. 

Anthony knocked at the door. It was opened by 
a slatternly woman, the wife of a neighbour. Old 
Joe Witlock was in bed with a cold. It was his 
son’s fault, he explained. Matthew would insist 
on the workshop door being always left open. He 
would give no reason, but as it was he who prac- 


ANTHONY JOHN 


151 


tically earned the living his father thought it best 
to humour him. The old man was pleased to see 
Anthony, and they talked for a while about old 
days. Anthony explained his visit. It was the 
roof of the workshop that wanted repairing. 
Anthony went out again and round by the front 
way. The door was wide open, so that passing 
along the street one could see into the workshop. 
Matthew was repairing a bicycle. He had grown 
into a well-built good-looking young man. It was 
only about the eyes that one noticed anything pe¬ 
culiar. He recognized Anthony at once and they 
shook hands. Anthony was looking up at the roof 
when he heard a movement and turned round. A 
girl was sitting on a stool behind the open 
door. It was the very stool that Anthony himself 
had been used to sit upon as a child watching his 
father at his work. It was Miss Coomber. She 
held out her hand with a laugh. 

“Father sent me out of the room last time I saw 
you,” she said, “without introducing us. I am 
Eleanor Coomber. You are Mr. Anthony Strong- 
’nth’arm, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” answered Anthony. “I heard you had 
returned to The Abbey.” 

“I was coming to see you—or rather Mr. John- 


152 


ANTHONY JOHN 


son,” she said, “with a letter from father; but I 
ran into a cart at the bottom of the hill. I’m really 
only a beginner,” she added by way of excuse. 

“Then you ought not to ride down steep hills,” 
said Anthony, “especially not in a town.” 

“I’ll get off at The Three Carpenters next time,” 
she said, “if you promise not to tell.” 

Anthony took the letter and promised to deliver 
it. “You’ve come back for good, haven’t you?” 
he asked. 

“Tell me,” she said. “You do know all about 
it, don’t you? Do you think we shall be able to? 
I do love it.” 

Anthony was silent for a moment. She was evi¬ 
dently hanging on his answer. 

“It’s possible,” he said, “with strict economy.” 

She laughed as though relieved. 

“Oh, that!” she said. “We’re used enough to 
that.” 

Matthew was blowing the furnace. The light 
from the glowing embers flickered round them. 

“You were bom here, weren’t you?” she asked. 

“In the house adjoining, to be exact,” he 
answered with a laugh. “But this was my nursery. 
I used to sit on that very stool with my leg tucked 
underneath me watching my father work. I loved 
it when he blew the bellows and made the shadows 


ANTHONY JOHN 


153 


dance. At least I expect it’s the same stool,” 
he added. “There was the figure of a gnome 
that a strange old fellow I once knew carved upon 
it.” 

She sprang to the ground and examined it. 

“Yes,” she said. “It is the same. He must 
have been quite clever.” 

She reseated herself upon it. Her feet just 
touched the ground. 

“I wasi bom in Brazil,” she said. “Father had 
a ranch near Rio. But we left there before I was 
three. The first thing I can really remember is 
The Abbey. We must have come on a visit, I sup¬ 
pose, to Sir William. It was the long garden be¬ 
tween the cloister walls that was my first nursery. 
I used to play there with the flowers and make them 
talk to me.” 

“I saw you there,” he said, “one afternoon.” 

She looked up at him. “When was that?” she 
asked. 

“Oh, one evening in September,” he said. 
“About two years ago.” He had spoken without 
premeditation and now felt himself flushing. He 
hoped she might think it only the glow from the 
furnace fire. 

“But we were in Florence,” she said. 

“I know,” he answered, flushing still deeper. 



154 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“I asked old Wilkins when you had come back, and 
he thought I was mad.” 

“It is curious,” she answered gravely. “I 
dreamed one day that I was walking there and met 
your namesake, Anthony the Monk. He was stand¬ 
ing by the wicket gate on the very spot where he was 
slain. He called to me, but I was frightened and 
hid myself among the flowers.” 

Anthony was interested. 

“Who was the Monk Anthony?” he asked. 

“Don’t you know the story?” she said. “He was 
the son of one Giles Strong’nth’arm and Martha his 
wife, according to the records of the monastery. 
It seems to have been a common name in the neigh¬ 
bourhood, but I expect you were all one family. 
The abbot had died suddenly of a broken heart. 
It was the time of the confiscation of the mon¬ 
asteries by Henry VIII, and the monks had chosen 
Anthony to act for them although he was the 
youngest of them all. He spent all night upon his 
knees, and when our ancestor arrived in the morn¬ 
ing with his men-at-arms he met them at the great 
door of the chapel—it was where the rose garden 
is now—and refused to let them pass. The 
soldiers murmured and hesitated, for he had made 
of his outstretched arms a Cross, and a light, it 
was said, shone (round about him. They would 




ANTHONY JOHN 


155 


have turned and fled. But it was to our ancestor, 
Percival de Comhler—as it was then spelt—that 
The Abbey and its lands had been granted, and he 
was not the man to let it slip from his hands. He 
spurred his horse forward and struck down the 
Monk Anthony with one blow of his sword. And 
they rode their horses over his body and into the 
chapel.” 

“No,” said Anthony. “I never heard the story. 
It always troubled my father, any talk about what 
his people had once been.” 

“You’re so like him,” she said. “It struck me 
the first time I saw you. You were sitting by the 
window writing. One of Sir Percival’s young 
squires, who had been a student in Holland, made 
a picture of him from memory as he stood with his 
arms outstretched in the form of a Cross. Re¬ 
mind me next time you come to The Abbey and I’ll 
show it you. It hangs in the library.” 

Matthew had finished. Anthony would not let 
her mount in the town. He insisted that she should 
wait until they got to The Three Carpenters, and 
walked beside her wheeling the bicycle. Her de¬ 
sire was to become an expert rider. A horse of 
her own was, of course, out of the question, and she 
had never cared for walking. They talked about 
The Abbey and the lonely moorland round about 



156 


ANTHONY JOHN 


it. One of the misfortunes of being poor was that 
you could do so little to help people. The moor 
folk had been used to look to The Abbey as a sort 
of permanent Lady Bountiful. The late Sir 
William had always been open-handed. She did 
what she could. There was an old bed-ridden 
labourer who lived in a lonely cottage with his 
granddaughter. The girl had suddenly left him 
and there was no one to look after him. He could 
just crawl about and feed himself, but that was all. 
Anthony’s conscience smote him. Betty was away. 
The old man was one of her pensioners and he had 
promised to keep an eye on them till she came 
back. They arranged to meet there. He would 
see about getting some help. 


CHAPTER XI 


I T came so suddenly that neither jof them at 
first knew what had happened. A few meet¬ 
ings among the lonely by-ways of the moor 
that they had honestly persuaded themselves were 
by mere chance. A little walking side by side 
where the young leaves brushed their faces and 
the young ferns hid their feet. A little laughing, 
when the April showers would catch them lost in 
talk, and hand in hand they would race for the 
shelter of some over-hanging bank and crouch close 
pressed against each other among the twisted roots 
of the stunted firs. A little lingering on the home¬ 
ward way, watching the homed moon climb up 
above the woods, while the song of some late lark 
filled all the world around them. Until one eve¬ 
ning, having said good-bye though standing with 
their hands still clasped, she had raised her face 
to his and he had drawn her to him and their lips 
had met. 

Neither had foreseen it nor intended it. It had 
been so spontaneous, so natural, that it seemed but 
the signing of a pact, the inevitable fulfilling of the 
law. Nothing had changed except that, now, they 
knew. 


157 


158 


ANTHONY JOHN 

He turned his footsteps away from the town. A 
deep endless peace seemed to be around him. So 
this was what Edward had meant when he had 
written, so short a while before the end, that love 
was the great secret leading to God, that without it 
life was meaningless and void. 

It was for this that he had waited, like some 
blind chrysalis not knowing of the day when it 
should be born into the sunlight. 

He laughed, remembering what his dream had 
been: wealth, power, fame: the senseless dream of 
the miser starving beside his hoarded gold. These 
things he would strive for now with greater strength 
than ever—would win them, not for themselves, but 
for Love’s sake, as service, as sacrifice. 

He had no fear. Others had failed. It was not 
love, but passion that burns itself out. There was 
no alloy in his desire for her. She was beautiful 
he knew. But he was drawn by it as one is moved 
by the beauty of a summer’s night, the tenderness 
of spring, the mystery of flowers. There was no 
part of her that whispered to him. The thought of 
her hands, her feet, the little dimple in her chin; 
it brought no stirring of his blood. It was she her¬ 
self, with all about her that was imperceptible, un¬ 
explainable, that he yearned for; not to possess, 
but to worship, to abide with. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


159 


For a period he went about his work as in a 
dream, his brain guiding him as a man’s brain 
guides him crossing the road while his mind is far 
away. The thought of her was all around him. 
It was for that brief evening hour when they would 
meet and look into one another’s eyes that he lived. 

As the days wore by there came to him the sug¬ 
gestion of difficulties, of obstacles. One by one he 
examined them and dismissed them. Would 
her people consent? If not, they must take the 
law into their own hands. About Eleanor herself 
he had no misgivings. He knew, without asking 
her, that she would brave all things. God had 
joined them together. No power of man should 
put them asunder. 

Betty—a dim shadowy Betty like some thin 
wraith—moved beside him as he walked. He was 
not bound to her. Even if there had been a pledge 
between them he would have had to break it. If 
need be, if God willed it, and Eleanor were to die— 
for it seemed impossible that any lesser thing could 
part them—he could live his life alone; or rather 
with the memory of her that would give him 
strength and courage. But to marry any other 
woman was unthinkable. It would be a degrada¬ 
tion to both. 

Besides, Betty had never loved him. There had 



160 


ANTHONY JOHN 


been no talk of love between them. It would have 
been a mere marriage of convenience, the very 
thing that Edward had foreseen and had warned 
him against. To live without love was to flout 
God. Love was God. He understood now. It 
was through love that God spoke to us, called to us. 
It was through the Beloved One that God mani¬ 
fested Himself to us. One built a tabernacle and 
abided with her. It was good to be there. 

Would it interfere with his career? Old Mr. 
Mowbray had been reckoning on his marrying 
Betty. He might, to use a common expression, cut 
up rough. He would have to risk that. As things 
were now it would be difficult for the firm of Mow¬ 
bray and Cousins to go on without him. But anger 
does not act reasonably. Mr. Mowbray, indignant, 
resentful, could do much to hamper him, delay 
him. But that would be the worst. He felt his 
own power. He had made others believe in him. 
They would have to wait a few years longer while 
he was recovering his lost ground. As to the ulti¬ 
mate result he had no doubt. The determination 
to win was stronger in him than ever before. Love 
would sharpen his wits, make clearer his vision. 
With Love one could compel Fate. 

Betty and her father were abroad. They had 
gone to Italy for the winter, meaning to return 


ANTHONY JOHN 161 

about the end of March. But Mr. Mowbray had 
taken an illness which had altered their plans. 
Mrs. Strong’nth’arm had taken to indulge herself 
each day in a short evening walk. Anthony did not 
usually return home till between seven and eight; 
and as she explained to Mrs. Newt, she found this 
twilight time a little sad for sitting about and doing 
nothing. She always took the same direction. It 
led her through the open space surrounding the 
church of St. Aldys, where stood the great square 
house of Mowbray and Cousins. Glancing at it as 
she passed, she would notice that the door was 
closed, that no light shone from any of its windows. 
A little farther on she would pass The Priory, and 
glancing through the iron gates, would notice that, 
so far as the front of the house was concerned, it 
showed no sign of life. Then she would turn and 
walk back to Bruton Square, and putting off her 
outdoor things, watch by the window till Anthony 
came in; and they would sit down to supper and she 
would talk to him about the business of the day, his 
schemes and projects. She never tired of hearing 
about them. 

One evening she had glanced as usual in passing 
at the office of Mowbray and Cousins. The house 
was dark and silent. But from the windows of The 
Priory lights were shining. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm 


162 


ANTHONY JOHN 


looked about her with somewhat the air of a con¬ 
spirator. The twilight was deepening into dark¬ 
ness and no one was about. She pushed open the 
iron gate and closed it softly behind her. She 
knocked at the door so gently that it was not till the 
third time that she was heard. The maidservant 
who answered it seemed flustered and bustled- 
Mr. and Miss Mowbray had only returned an hour 
ago. She did not think that either of them would 
see anybody. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm took from her 
pocket a soiled and crumpled envelope. She 
smoothed it out and begged the maid to take it at 
once to Miss Mowbray. The maid, reluctant and 
grumbling, took it and disappeared. She returned 
a minute later, and Mrs. Strong’nth’arm followed 
her upstairs to the small room over the hall that was 
Betty’s sanctum. Betty was still in her travelling 
dress. She was tired, but made Mrs. Strong’nth’¬ 
arm comfortable in an armchair beside the fire and 
closed the door. 

“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” she asked. 
“Anthony isn’t ill?” 

“He’s quite all right,” Mrs. Strong’nth’arm 
assured her. “How’s your father?” 

“Oh, not very well,” answered Betty. “I’ve just 
sent him to bed,” she laughed. “You’re sure 
there’s nothing wrong?” she asked again. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


163 


Mrs. Strong’nth’arm was sitting bolt upright on 
the edge of the chair, holding her hands out to the 
fire. 

“Well, I shouldn’t be here, an hour after your 
arrival, just for the sake of a gossip,” she answered 
without looking up. 

“That’s just what I was thinking,” said Betty. 

“Perhaps I’d better get on to it,” answered Mrs. 
Strong’nth’arm. “Then it will be the sooner over. 
I want to be back before he comes in, if I can.” 

Betty took a chair beside her, facing the fire. 

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’ve got an ink¬ 
ling of it.” 

The other looked at her in surprise. 

“How could you?” she asked. “He’s never said 
a word, even to me.” 

Betty smiled. 

“Then how is it you know?” she answered. “Of 
course I knew they were back. He wrote and told 
me.” 

“Yes,” said the other. “It’s wonderful how love 
sharpens a woman’s instincts.” Suddenly she 
leant forward and gripped the girl’s hand. “Don’t 
let him,” she said. “Stop him before it’s too 
late.” She felt the girl’s hand tremble in hers. 
“I’m not thinking of you,” she said. “Do it for 
his sake—save him.” 



164 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“How can I?” the girl answered. “What would 
you have me do? Go down on my knees to him. 
Cry to him for pity?” 

“Not pity,” answered the other, “for common 
honesty. Put it to his honour. He thinks no end 
of that. That’s his religion—the only religion he’s 
got. He’s yours, not hers. Hasn’t he been dan¬ 
gling about after you for years? Doesn’t he owe 
everything to you? His first start that gave him 
his chance! How can he get over that? Hasn’t he 
compromised you? Doesn’t everybody know of it 
and take it as a settled thing? What are you going 
to do if you let him throw you over now? If you 
let this brainless doll, just because of her white 
skin-” 

“Don’t, don’t,” cried the girl. She had risen. 
“What’s the good? Besides, what right have I?” 

“What right?” answered the other. , “You love 
him; that’s what gives you the right. You were 
made for him, to be his helpmeet, as the Bible says. 
Do you think I don’t know him? What could she 
do for him except waste his money on her luxuries 
and extravagancies? What does her class know 
about money but how to fling it about and then 
laugh at the man when it’s all spent? What do 
they know of the aching and sweating that goes to 
the making of it? What will be his share of the 



ANTHONY JOHN 


165 


bargain but to keep the whole pauper family of 
them in idle ease while he wears out his heart 
slaving for them, and they look down upon him 
and despise him. What right-” 

Her voice had risen to a scream. The girl held 
up a warning hand. She checked herself and went 
on in a low, swift tone. 

“What right has she to come forcing her way at 
the last moment into other people’s lives, spoiling 
them just for a passing whim? Love! That sort 
of love! We know how long that lasts and what 
comes afterwards. Only in this case it will be she 
that will first tire of him. His very faithfulness 
will bore her. He hasn’t the monkey tricks that at¬ 
tract these women. Upstart! Charity boy! That’s 
what she’ll fling at him when some fawning popin¬ 
jay has caught her fancy. I tell you I know her 
and her sort. I’ve lived among them. They don’t 
act before their servants.” 

She came closer. “Get him away from her. 
It’s only a boy’s infatuation for something new and 
strange. Tell him how it will spoil his career. 
You’ve only got to speak to your father for all his 
plans to come tumbling to the ground. He’ll listen 
to that. He hasn’t lost all his senses—not yet. 
Besides, she wouldn’t want him then. She isn’t 
out to marry a struggling young solicitor without 




166 ANTHONY JOHN 

capital. You can take that from me.” She 
laughed. 

Betty looked at her. “You would have me in¬ 
jure him?” she said. 

“Yes; to save him from her,” answered the other, 
“she has changed him already. There are times 
when I don’t seem to know him. She will ruin 
him if she has her way. Save him. You can.” 

The woman’s vehemence had exhausted her. 
She dropped back into her chair. 

“Listen,” said the girl. “I do love your son. 
I love him so well that if he and this girl really 
loved one another and I was sure of it, I would do 
all I could to help him to marry her. It all de¬ 
pends upon that: if they really love one another.” 

The woman made to speak, but the girl' silenced 
her with a gesture. 

“Let me try and explain myself to you,” she 
said, “because after tonight we must never talk 
about this thing again. I should have been very 
happy married to Anthony. I knew he did not love 
me. There is a saying that in most love affairs 
one loves and the other consents to be loved. That 
was all I asked of him. I did not think he was 
capable of love—not in the big sense of the word. 
I thought him too self-centred, too wrapped up in 
his ambition. I thought that I could make him 



ANTHONY JOHN 167 

happy and that he would never know, that he would 
come to look upon me as a helper and a comrade. 
That perhaps with children he would come to feel 
affection for me, to have a need of me. I could 
have been content with that.” 

She had been standing with her elbow resting on 
the mantelpiece, gazing into the fire. Now she 
straightened herself and looked the other in .the 
eyes. 

“But I am glad I was wrong,” she went on. 
“I’d be glad to think that he could love—madly, 
foolishly, if you will—forgetting himself and his 
ambition, forgetting all things, feeling that nothing 
else mattered. Of course, if it could have been for 
me”—she gave a little smile—“that would have 
been heaven. But I would rather—honestly rather 
that he loved this girl than that he never loved any 
one—was incapable of love. It sounds odd, but 
I love him the better for it. He is greater than I 
thought him.” 

The other was staring at her. The girl moved 
over to her and laid a hand upon her shoulder. 

“I know what you are thinking,” she said. “It 
doesn’t last. A few years at most and the glory 
has departed. I’m not so sure of that.” 

She had moved away. Mechanically she was 
arranging books and papers on her desk. “I was 





168 


ANTHONY JOHN 


going over an old bureau in my mother’s room a 
while ago,” she said. “And in a little secret 
drawer I found a packet of letters written to her by 
my father. I suppose I ought not to have read 
them, but I don’t regret it. I thought they were the 
letters he had written her in their courting days. 
They were quite beautiful letters. No one but a 
lover could have written them. But there were 
passages in them that puzzled me. There was a 
postscript to one, telling her of a new undercloth¬ 
ing made from pine wood that the doctors were 
recommending for rheumatism, and asking her if 
she would like to try it. And in another there was 
talk about children. And then it occurred to me 
to look at the date marks on the outside of the 
envelopes. They were letters he had written her 
at intervals during the last few years of her life; 
and I remembered then how happy they had been 
together just before the end. Our lives are like 
gardens, I always think. Perhaps we can’t help the 
weeds coming, but that doesn’t make the flowers less 
beautiful.” 

She turned her face again to the woman. 

“And even if so,” she said, “even if sooner or 
later the glory does fade, at least we have seen it 
—have seen God’s face. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


169 


“I remember a blind boy,” sbe continued, “that 
dad took an interest in. He had been born blind. 
Nobody thought he could be cured except a famous 
oculist in Lausanne that dad wrote to about him. 
He thought there was just a chance. My mother 
and I were going to Switzerland for a holiday and 
we took him with us. He was a dear, merry 
little chap in spite of it. The specialist examined 
him and then shook his head. T can cure him,’ he 
said, ‘but it will come again very soon.’ He 
thought it would be kinder to leave him to his blind¬ 
ness. But my mother urged him and he yielded. 

“It was wonderful to look into his eyes when he 
could see. We had warned him that it might be 
only for a time, and he understood. One night I 
heard a sound in his room and went in. He had 
crept out of bed and was sitting on the dressing- 
table in front of the window with his hands clasped 
round his knees. T want to remember it,’ he 
whispered. 

“You may be right,” she said. “It may bring 
him sorrow, this love. But, even so, I would not 
save him from it if I could.” 

She knelt and took the older woman’s hands in 
hers. 

“We must not stand in his way, you and I,” she 


170 


ANTHONY JOHN 


said. “If it were only his happiness and pros¬ 
perity we had to think of we might be justified. 
But it might be his soul we were hurting.” 

The woman had grown calm. “And you,” she 
asked, “what will you do?” 

Betty smiled. “Oh, nothing very heroic!” she 
answered. “I shall have dad to look after for 
years to come. We shall travel. I’m fond of 
travelling. And ,afterwards—oh! there are heaps 
of things I want to do that will interest me and keep 
me busy.” 

The woman glanced at the clock. The time had 
slipped by; it was nearly eight. “He’ll guess 
where I’ve been,” she said. 

“What will you tell him?” the girl asked. 

“Seems to me,” answered the woman, “I may as 
well tell him the truth: that I’ve had a bit of a 
clack with you. That you will do all you can to 
help him. That’s right, isn’t it?” 

The girl nodded. 

The woman took the girl’s face in her two hands. 

“Not sure you’re not getting the best of it,” she 
said. “I often used to lie awake beside my man, 
and wish I could always think of him as he was 
when I first met him: brave and handsome, with 
his loving ways and his kind heart. I saw him 
again when he lay dead, and all my love came 


ANTHONY JOHN 


171 


back to me. A girl thinks, when she marries, that 
she’s won a lover. More often she finds that she’s 
lost him. It seems to me sometimes that it’s only- 
dreams that last. 

“Don’t bother to come down,” she said. “I’ll 
let myself out.” 

She closed the door softly behind her. The 
girl was still kneeling. 


CHAPTER XII 


M RS. STRONG’NTH’ARM had not spoken 
figuratively when she had told Betty that 
there were times when she did not know 
her own son. As a child, there had always been, 
to her, something mysterious about him; a gravity, 
a wisdom beyond his years. There had been, with 
him, no period of fun and frolic that she might 
have shared in; no mischievousness for her to 
scold while loving him the more for it; no help¬ 
lessness to make appeal to her. From the day 
when he could crawl his self-reliance had caused 
her secret tears. He never came to her for com¬ 
fort or protection. Beyond providing for his 
bodily wants she was no use to him. 

She had thought his father’s death would draw 
him to her, making him more dependent on her. 
But instead there had grown up around him a 
strange aloofness that hid him still further from 
her eyes. For her labour and sacrifice, she knew 
that he was grateful; that he would never rest sat¬ 
isfied till he had rewarded her. He respected her, 
was always kind and thoughtful—even loved her in 
a way; she felt that. In the serving world, where 




ANTHONY JOHN 173 

she had passed her girlhood, it was not uncommon 
for good and faithful servants to be regarded in 
the same way: with honour and affection. 

At first the difference between him and all other 
boys she had ever known or heard of had been her 
daily cross. She recalled how eagerly he had wel¬ 
comed his father’s offer to teach him to read— 
how it was he who had kept his father up to the 
mark. At six years old he had taught himself to 
write. He had never cared for play. He was go¬ 
ing to be a scholar, a dreamer—some sort of crank 
or another. She had no use for cranks. They 
earned but poverty and the world’s contempt. Why 
couldn’t he be like other lads, differing from them 
only J)y being cleverer and stronger? It was that 
had been her prayer. 

In time she came to understand, and then her 
hope revived and grew. God intended him for 
great things. That was why he had been fashioned 
in another mould. He was going to be rich, pow¬ 
erful. Her dream would come true. He would 
be among the masters—would sit in the high places. 

That he had never fallen in love—had never even 
had a “fancy”—was further proof of his high 
destiny. Heaven itself, ,eager for his success, had 
chosen the wise Betty to be his helpmeet. She, 
loving him, would cherish him—help him to climb. 




174 


ANTHONY JOHN 


But on his side there would be no foolish fondness 
to weaken or distract him. Youth with its crazy 
lure of love had passed him by. It was the one 
danger she had feared; and he had escaped it. 
Nothing stood between him and his goal. The 
mother saw all things shaping themselves to the 
greatness and glory of her son. What mattered 
her secret tears, her starved love. 

And now, in the twinkling of an eye, as it were, 
all was changed. She saw him shorn of his 
strength, stripped of his self-reliance, uncertain of 
his purpose. She would try to draw him into talk 
about his schemes and projects. It had been their 
one topic of common interest. He had always 
valued her shrewd practicability. Now he would 
answer her indifferently: would lapse into long 
silences. The steadfast far-off look had gone out 
of his eyes. They had become the eyes of a boy, 
tender and shy: the eyes of a dreamer. The firm 
strong lines about the mouth had been smoothed 
away as if by some magic touch. She would 
watch, unknown to him, the smile that came and 
went about his parted lips. One evening, for no 
reason, he put his arm about her, smoothed back 
her thin grey hair, and kissed her. It was the first 
time he had ever shown her any sign of love, spon¬ 
taneous and unasked for. Had it come at an 


ANTHONY JOHN 


175 


earlier date she would have cried for joy. But 
knowing what she did it angered her, though she 
spoke no word. It was but an overflowing of his 
love for this stranger—a few drops spilled from the 
cup he had poured out for another. Part of her 
desire that he should marry Betty .had been her 
knowledge that he had no love for the girl. Betty 
would have taken nothing from her. But a mad 
jealousy had come to her at the thought that this 
stranger should have been the first to awaken love 
in him. What had she done for him, this passer¬ 
by, but throw him a glance from her shameless 
eyes? What could she ever do for him but take 
from him: ever crying give, give, give. 

She told him of her talk with Betty, so far as 
it had been agreed upon between them. She had a 
feeling of comradeship with Betty. 

“It might have been a bit awkward for you,” she 
said, “if she had cared for you. I wanted to see 
how the land lay.” 

“How did you find it all out?” he asked. “I’m 
glad you have. I’ve been wanting to tell you. But 
I was so afraid you wouldn’t understand.” 

“Why shouldn’t I understand?” she asked dryly. 

“Because I don’t myself,” he answered. “It is 
as if another Anthony had been growing up inside 
me, unknown to me, until he had become 



176 


ANTHONY JOHN 


stronger than myself and had taken possession of 
me. He was there when I was quite little. I used 
to catch a glimpse of him now and then. An odd 
little dreamy sort of a chap that used to wonder 
and ask questions. Don’t you remember? I 
thought he was dead: that I had killed him so that 
he wouldn’t worry me any more. Instead of which 
he was just biding his time. And now he is I, and 
I don’t seem to know what’s become of myself.” 

He laughed. 

“I do love Betty,” he went on, “and always shall. 
But it isn’t with the love that makes a man and 
woman one: that opens the gates of life.” 

“It’s come to you hot and strong, lad,” she said; 
“as I always expected it would, if it ever did come. 
But it isn’t the fiercest flame that bums the longest.” 

He flung himself on his knees in front of her, 
and putting his arms around her hid his face in 
her lap. She winced and her little meagre figure 
stiffened. But he did not notice. If she could but 
have forgotten: if only for that moment! 

“Oh, mother,” he whispered, “it’s so beautiful; 
it does last. It must be always there. It is only 
that our mean thoughts rise up like mists and hide 
it from our eyes.” 

He looked up. There were tears in his eyes. 
He drew her face down to his and kissed it. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


177 


“I never knew how much I loved you till now,” 
he said. “Your dear tired hands that have worked 
and suffered for me. But for you I should never 
have met and talked with her. It is you have given 
her to me. And, oh, mother, she is wonderful. 
There must be some mystery about it. Of course, 
to others, she is only beautiful and sweet; but to 
me there is something more than that. I feel 
frightened sometimes as though I were looking 
upon something not of this world. 

“What did Betty say,” he asked suddenly; “was 
she surprised?” 

“She said she was glad,” his mother answered 
him, “that you had it in you. She said she liked 
you all the better for it.” 

He laughed. “Dear Betty,” he said, “I knew 
she’d understand.” 

His self-confidence, for the first time in his life, 
deserted him, when he thought of his necessary in¬ 
terview with Sir Harry Coomber. He himself was 
anxious to get it over in order to put an end to his 
suspense. It was Eleanor who held him back. 

“You don’t know dad,” she said. “He’s quite 
capable of carrying me off to China or Peru 
if he thought there was no other way of stopping it. 
Remember, I’m only seventeen. Besides,” she 
added, “he may not live very long and I don’t want 


178 


ANTHONY JOHN 


to hurt him. Leave it until I’ve had a talk with 
Jim. I’ll write him to come down. I haven’t 
seen him in his uniform yet. He’ll be wanting to 
show himself.” She laughed. 

Jim was her brother, her senior by some five or 
six years. There was a strong bond of affection 
between them, and she hoped to enlist him on her 
side. She did not tell Anthony, but she saw in front 
of her quite a big fight. It was not only the matter 
of money, though she knew that with her lay the 
chief hope of retrieving the family fortunes. It 
was the family pride that would be her great ob¬ 
stacle. An exceptionally ancient and umbrageous 
plant, the Coomber genealogical tree. An illustra¬ 
tion of it hung in the library. Adam and Eve were 
pictured tending its roots. Adam, loosening the 
earth around it, while Eve watered it out of a goat 
skin. The artist had chosen the fig-leaf period. 
It was with Charlemagne that it began to take 
shape. From William the Conqueror sprang the 
branch that bore the Coomber family. At first 
they did not know how to spell their own name. 
It was not till the reign of James I that its present 
form had got itself finally accepted. 

Under this tree Eleanor and her brother sat one 
evening after dinner beside a fire of blazing logs. 
Sir Harry and Lady Coomber had gone to bed: they 


ANTHONY JOHN 


179 


generally did about ten o’clock. Jim had brought 
his uniform down with him and had put it on: 
though shy of doing so before the servants. 
Fortunately there were not many of them. Neither 
had spoken for some few minutes. Jim had been 
feeling instinctively all the evening that Eleanor 
had had a purpose in sending for him. He was 
smoking a briar wood pipe. 

“I like you in your uniform, Jim,” she said sud¬ 
denly; “you do look handsome in it.” 

He laughed. “Guess I’ll have to change into 
something less showy,” he answered. 

“Must you?” she asked. 

“Don’t see who is going to allow me fifteen hun¬ 
dred a year,” he answered; “and it can’t be done 
on less. There’s Aunt Mary, of course, she may 
and she mayn’t. Can’t think of any one else.” 

“It was rather a mistake, wasn’t it?” she sug¬ 
gested. 

“It’s always been the family tradition,” he 
answered. “Of course, it was absurd in our case. 
But then it’s just like the dear old guv’nor: buy the 
thing first and think about paying for it after¬ 
wards.” 

She was tapping the fender with her foot. “It’s 
putting it coarsely,” she said with a laugh, “but I’m 
afraid he was banking on me.” 


180 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“You mean a rich marriage?” 

She nodded. 

He was leaning back in his chair, puffing rings of 
smoke into the air. 

“Any chance of it?” he asked. 

She shook her head. “Not now,” she said. 
“I’m in love.” 

It brought him up straight. 

“In love?” he repeated. “Why, you’re only a 
kid.” 

“That’s what I thought,” she answered, “up to a 
month ago.” 

“Who is it?” he asked. 

“A young local solicitor,” she answered, “the 
son of a blacksmith. They say his mother used to 
go out charring. But that may be only servants’ 
gossip.” 

“Good God,” he exclaimed. “Are you mad?” 

She laughed. “I thought I would tell you the 
worst about him first,” she said, “and so get it over. 
Against all that, is the fact that he’s something quite 
out of the common. He’s the type from which 
the world’s conquerors are drawn. Napoleon was 
only the son of a provincial attorney. He’s the 
most talked about man in Millsborough already; 
and everything he puts his hand to succeeds. He’s 
pretty sure to end as a millionaire with a seat in the 


ANTHONY JOHN 


181 


House of Lords. Not that I’m marrying him for 
that. I’m only telling you that to make it easier for 
you to help me. I’d love him just the same if he 
were a cripple on a pound a week. I’d go out char¬ 
ring, if need be, like his mother did. It’s no good 
reasoning with me, Jim,” she added after a pause. 
“When did a man or woman of our blood ever put 
reason above love? It’s part of our inheritance. 
Your time will come one day; and then you will 
understand, if you don’t now.” 

She had risen. She came behind him and put 
her arms about his neck. 

“We’ve always stood by each other, Jim,” she 
said. “Be a chum.” 

“What’s he like?” he growled. 

She laughed. “Oh, you needn’t worry about 
that,” she said. “There he is. Look at him.” 

She took his face between her two hands and 
turned it towards the picture of the monk Anthony 
standing with crossed arms, a strange light round 
about him. 

“It’s like some beautiful old legend,” she con¬ 
tinued. “Sir Percival couldn’t f have killed him. 
You know his body was never found. It was said 
that as he lay there, bleeding from his wounds, 
Saint Aldys had suddenly appeared and had lifted 
him up in his arms as if he had been a child and 


182 


ANTHONY JOHN 


had borne him away. He has been asleep all these 
years in the bosom of Saint Aldys; and now he is 
come back. It must be he. The likeness is so 
wonderful and it is his very name, Anthony Strong- 
’nth’arm. They were here before we came—the 
Strong’nth’arms—yeomen and squires. He is 
come to lift them up again. And I am going to 
right the old wrong by helping him and loving 
him.” 

“Have you told all that to the guv’nor?” he asked 
with a grin. 

“I’m not sure that I won’t,” she answered. “It’s 
all in Dugdale. Except about his coming to life 
again.” 

“It’s his turning up again as, a solicitor that will 
be your difficulty,” Jim suggested. “If he’d come 
back as a curate-” 

“It wouldn’t have been true,” she interrupted. 
“It was the church that ruled the land in those days. 
Now it is the men of business. He’s going to make 
the valley into one great town and do away with 
slums and poverty. It was he who made the docks 
and brought the sea, and linked up the railway. 
He comes back to rule and guide—to make the 
land fruitful, in the new way; and the people pros¬ 
perous.” 





ANTHONY JOHN 183 

“And himself a millionaire, with a seat in the 
House of Lords,” quoted her brother. 

“So did the old churchmen,” she answered. 
“As Anthony, the monk, he would have become a 
cardinal with his palaces and revenues. A great 
man is entitled to his just wages.” 

Jim had risen, he was pacing the room. 

“There’ll be the devil to pay,” he said. “The 
poor old guv’nor will go off his head. Aunt Mary 
will go off her head. They’ll all go off their heads. 
I shall have to exchange and go out to India.” 

The colour had gone out of her cheeks. 

“Why should they punish you for me?” she 
asked. 

“Because it’s the law of the world,” he ex¬ 
plained. “They’ve got to kick somebody. When 
he’s a millionaire with his seat in the House of 
Lords they’ll forgive us.” 

“You’re making jne feel pretty mean and self¬ 
ish,” she said. 

“Love is selfish,” he answered. “Don’t see how 
you can help that.” He halted suddenly in front of 
her. “You do love him?” he demanded. “You 
are not afraid to be selfish? You are going to let 
me down. You are going to hurt the guv’nor, very 
seriously. He hasn’t had much luck in life. This 


184 ANTHONY JOHN 

is going to be the last blow. You are willing to in¬ 
flict it.” 

The tears were in her eyes. 

“I must,” she answered. 

He took her by the shoulders. 

“If you had hesitated,” he said, “I should have 
known it wasn’t the real thing. You are under 
orders, kid, and can’t help yourself. 

“You needn’t worry about me,” he said. “I’d 
have hated taking their confounded charity in any 
case. We must let the dad down as gently as 
possible. Leave it to me to break it to him. He 
must be used to disappointments, poor old buffer. 
Thank the Lord we haven’t got to worry about the 
mater. Tell her all that about Monk Anthony. 
She will love all that. Never mind the millionaire 
business and the House of Lords.” 

Lady Coomber was a curiously shy, gentlelady, 
somewhat of an enigma to those who did not know 
her history; they included her two children. Her 
name had been Edith Trent. She came of old 
Virginia stock. Harry Comber, then a clerk in 
the British Embassy, had met her in Washington 
where she was living with friends, both her parents 
being dead. They had fallen in love with one 
another, and the marriage was within a day or two 
of taking place when the girl suddenly disappeared. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


185 


Young Harry, making use of all the influence he 
could obtain, succeeded in tracing her. She was. 
living in the negro quarter of New Orleans, earning 
her living as a school teacher. She had discovered 
on evidence that had seemed to her to admit of 
no doubt that her grandmother had been a slave.. 
It was difficult to believe. She was a beautiful, 
olive-skinned girl with wavy, dark brown hair and 
finely chiselled features. Young Harry Coomber, 
madly in love with her, had tried to persuade her 
that even if true it need not separate them. Out¬ 
side America it would not matter. He would take 
her abroad or return with her to England. His en¬ 
treaties were unavailing. She regarded herself as 
unclean. She had been bred to all the Southern 
American’s hatred and horror of the negro race. 
Among her people the slightest taint of the “tar 
brush” was sufficient to condemn man or woman to 
life-long ostracism. She would have inflicted the 
same fate upon another, and a sense of justice com¬ 
pelled her not to shirk the punishment in her own 
case. 

Five years later a circumstance came to light that 
proved the story false, and the long-delayed mar¬ 
riage took place quietly at the Sheriff’s office of a 
small town in Pennsylvania. 

But the memory of those five years of her life,. 


186 


ANTHONY JOHN 


passed in what to her had been a living grave, had 
changed her whole character. An outcast among 
outcasts, she had drunk to the dregs their cup of 
terror and humiliation. In that city of shame, out 
of which for five years she had never once emerged, 
she had met men and women like herself: refined, 
cultured, educated. She had shared their long- 
drawn martyrdom. For her, the veil had been 
lifted from their tortured souls. 

As a girl, she had been proud, haughty, exacting. 
It had been part of her charm. She came back to 
life a timid, gentle, sorrowful woman with a pity 
that would remain with her to the end for all crea¬ 
tures that suffered. 

Left to herself, she would have joined some band 
of workers, as missionary, nurse or teacher—as 
servant in any capacity. It would not have 
mattered to her what so that she could have felt she 
was doing something towards lessening the world’s 
pain. She had yielded to her lover’s insistence 
from a sense of duty, persuaded that she owed her¬ 
self to him for his faithfulness and patience. The 
marriage had brought disappointment to them both. 
She had hoped some opportunity would be afforded 
her of satisfying her craving to be of help if only 
to some few in some small corner of the earth. 
But her husband’s straitened means had always 


ANTHONY JOHN 187 

'kept her confined to the bare struggle for existence. 
Another, in her place, might have been able to give 
at least sympathy and kindliness. But she was a 
woman broken in spirit. All her strength went out 
in her endeavours to be a good wife and mother. 
And even here she failed. She was of no assist¬ 
ance to her husband, as she knew. For business 
she had neither heart nor head. In society she was 
silent and colourless. On her husband’s accession 
to the baronetcy and what was left of the estate, she 
had made a last effort to play her part. But the 
solitary years on the ranch had tended to increase 
her shyness, and secretly she was glad of the need 
for economy that compelled them to live abroad 
more or less in seclusion. The one joy she had was 
in her love of birds. To gather them about her, 
feed them, protect them by cunning means against 
their host of enemies, had become the business of 
her life. Even in the days of poverty she had been 
able to do that. She had come to love The Abbey 
even in the short time they had occupied it. She 
had made of its neglected gardens a bird sanctuary. 
Rare species, hunted and persecuted elsewhere, had 
found there a shelter. At early morning and late 
evening her little grey-clad figure could be seen 
stealing softly among the deep yew hedges and the 
tangled shrubberies that she would not have dis- 


188 


ANTHONY JOHN 


turbed. One could always tell her whereabouts 
by the fluttering of wings above her in the air—the 
babel of sweet voices that heralded her coming. 

Her children had never been told her story. She 
had exacted that as a promise. Though her reason 
had been satisfied that the rumour told against her 
had been false, the haunting fear that it yet might 
be true remained with her. She would not have it 
passed on to them lest it should shadow their lives 
as it had darkened hers. Rather than that she was 
content that they should grow up wondering at the 
difference between her and other mothers, at her 
lack of interest in their youthful successes and am¬ 
bitions; at her strange aloofness from the things 
that excited their fears and hopes. 

As Jim had said, Eleanor’s marrying a black¬ 
smith’s son would not trouble her. The story of 
Monk Anthony she would love. The wrong done to 
him would probably bring tears into the still child¬ 
ish eyes. The prophecy of his millions and his 
seat in the House of Lords would not interest 
her. 


CHAPTER XIII 


T HEY were married abroad as it happened. 
Jim had exchanged; but his regiment, be¬ 
fore going on to India, had been appointed 
to the garrison at Malta. There the family had 
joined him for the winter. 

Fate had spared Sir Harry his last disappoint¬ 
ment in life. Jim had not told him about Eleanor. 
There was no hurry. It could be done at any time. 
And he had died, after a few days illness, early in 
the spring. He had been busy, unknown to the 
others, fixing up with his sister Mary for Eleanor 
to come out in London during the season, and had 
built great hopes upon the result. Thus, so far as 
that matter was concerned, the poor old gentleman 
had died happy. Eleanor and her mother stopped 
on at a little place up in the hills. Anthony came 
out at the end of the summer; and they had been 
married in the English church. It was arranged 
that Lady Coomber should remain at Malta till Jim 
left for India; it might be the next year or the year 
after. Then she would come back to England and 
live with them at The Abbey. Anthony had not 

hoped to be able to take Eleanor back to The 

189 


190 


ANTHONY JOHN 


Abbey, but the summer had brought him unusual 
good fortune. As a matter of fact, everything 
seemed to be prospering with him just now. He 
was getting nervous about it, wondering how long 
it would last. He was glad that he had been able 
to pay Jim a good price for the place; beyond 
that, when everything was cleared up and Lady 
Coomber’s annuity provided for, there would not 
be much left. 

Mrs. Strong’nth’arm would not come to live at 
The Abbey, though Eleanor was anxious that she 
should and tried to persuade her. Whether she 
thought Eleanor did not really want her or whether 
the reasons she gave him were genuine Anthony 
could not be sure. 

“I should be wandering, without knowing it, into 
the kitchen,” she explained; “or be jumping up 
suddenly to answer a bell. Or maybe,” she added 
with a smile, “I’d be slipping out of the back door 
of an evening to the little gate behind the stables, 
and thinking I saw your father under the shadow 
of the elms, where he used to be always waiting for 
me. IT1 be happier in the old square. There are 
no ghosts there—leastways, not for my eyes to 
see.” 

Besides, there was his aunt to be considered. 
He had thought that she might find a home with one 



ANTHONY JOHN 


191 


or another of her chapel friends. But Mrs. Newt 
had fallen away from grace, as it was termed, and 
was no longer in touch with her former circle. She 
had given back her fine tombstone to old Batson the 
stonemason who, not knowing what else to do with 
it, had used it to replace a broken doorstep leading 
to his office. She had come to picture her safe ar¬ 
rival at the gates of Endless Bliss with less com¬ 
placency. She no longer felt sure of her welcome. 

“Don’t see what I’ve done to deserve it,” she 
said. “All that I’ve ever tried to do has been to 
make myself comfortable in this world and to take 
good care, as I thought, to be on the right road for 
the next. I used to think it all depended upon 
faith: that all you had to do was to believe. But 
your poor uncle used to say it sounded a bit too 
cheap to be true. And if he was right and the Lord 
demands works, guess I’ll cut a poor figure.” 

The idea had come to her to replace the optimism 
of her discarded tombstone by a simple statement 
of facts with underneath: “Lord be merciful to me, 
a sinner.” But the head sexton, on being consulted 
as a friend, had objected to the quotation as one 
calculated to let down the tone of the cemetery, and 
had urged something less committal. 

So the two old ladies remained at Bruton Square, 
keeping for themselves the basement and the three 


192 


ANTHONY JOHN 


small rooms at the top. Anthony added an extra 
kitchen and let the rest of the house to a Mr. Arnold 
Landripp, an architect. He had for some years 
been occupying the two large schoolrooms as an 
office. He was a widower. His daughter, who 
had been at school in the south of England and 
afterwards at University College, had now joined 
him. She was aged about twenty, and was said to 
be a “high-brow.” The term was just coming into 
use. She was a tall, pale girl with coal black eyes. 
She wore her hair brushed back from her forehead 
and, in secret, smoked cigarettes, it was rumoured. 

Betty and her father lived practically abroad. 
They had taken a flat in Florence and had let The 
Priory furnished to a cousin of Mr. Mowbray who 
owned the big steel works at Shawley, half-way up 
the valley. 

Anthony had been generous over the sharing of 
profits; and Mr. Mowbray had expressed himelf as 
more than satisfied. 

“I was running the business on to the rocks,” he 
confessed. “There wouldn’t have been much left 
for Betty. As it is, I shall die with an easy mind, 
thanks to you.” 

He held out his hand. He and Anthony had 
been having a general talk in the great room with 
its three domed windows that had been Mr. Mow- 


ANTHONY JOHN 193 

bray’s private office and was now Anthony’s. He 
and Betty would be leaving early the next morning 
on their return to Italy. He hesitated a moment, 
still holding Anthony’s hand, and then spoke again. 

“I thought at one time,” he said, “that it might 
have been a closer relationship than that of mere 
partners. But she’s a strange girl. I don’t expect 
she ever will marry. I fancy I frightened her off 
it.” He laughed. “She knew that I loved her 
mother with as great a love as any woman could 
hope for. But it didn’t save me from making her 
life one of sorrow. 

“Do you know what’s wrong with the Apostles 
Creed?” he said. “They’ve left out the devil. 
Don’t you make the mistake, my lad, of not be¬ 
lieving in him. He doesn’t want us to believe in 
him. He wants us to believe that he is dead, that 
he never lived, that he’s just an old wives’ tale. 
We talk about the still small voice of God. Yes, 
if we listen very hard and if it’s all quiet about us, 
we can hear it. What about the insistent tireless 
voice of the other one who whispers to us day and 
night, sits beside us at table, creeps with us into 
bed? David made a mistake; he should have said, 
‘the fear of the devil is the beginning of wisdom.’ 
It began in the Garden of Eden. If the Lord only 
hadn’t forgot the serpent! It has been the trouble 


194 


ANTHONY JOHN 


of all the reformers. They might have accom¬ 
plished something: if they hadn’t forgotten the 
devil. It’s the trouble of every youngster, think¬ 
ing he sees his life before him; they all forget the 
devil.” 

Anthony laughed. 

“What line of tactics do you suggest for over¬ 
coming him?” he asked. 

“Haven’t myself had sufficient success to justify 
my giving advice,” answered Mr. Mowbray. “All 
I can warn you is that he takes many shapes. 
Sometimes he dresses himself up as a dear old lady 
and calls himself Mother Nature. Sometimes 
he wears a shiny hat and claims to be nothing 
more than a plain man of business. Some¬ 
times he comes clothed in glory and calls himself 
Love.” 

The old gentleman reached for his hat. 

“Didn’t expect to find me among the prophets, 
did you?” he added with a smile. 

He was growing feeble, and Anthony walked 
back with him to The Priory. They passed St. 
Aldys churchyard on their way. 

“I’ll just look in,” said Mr. Mowbray, “and say 
good-bye. I always like to before I go away.” 

Mr. Mowbray had bought many years ago the 
last three vacant graves in the churchyard. His 


ANTHONY JOHN 195 

wife lay in the centre one and Edward to the right 
of her. 

They stood there for a while in silence. 

“I suppose it’s only my fancy,” said Mr. Mow¬ 
bray, “but you seem to me to grow more like Ted 
every year. I don’t mean in appearance, though 
even there I often see a look in your eyes that re¬ 
minds me of him. But in other ways. Some¬ 
times I could almost think it was he speaking.” 

“I have changed,” said Anthony. “I feel it my¬ 
self. His death made a great void in my life. I 
felt that I had been left with a wound that would 
never heal. And then one day the thought came 
to me—it can hardly be called a thought. I heard 
his very voice speaking to me, with just that little 
note of irritation in it that always came to him 
when he was arguing and got excited. 4 I am not 
dead,’ he said. ‘How foolishly you are talking. 
How can I be dead while you are thinking of me— 
while you still love me and are wanting me. Who 
wants the dead? It is because you know I live, 
and that I love you, and always shall, that you want 
me. I am not dead. I am with you.’ ” 

“Yes,” said Mowbray after a little pause, “he 
loved you very dearly. I was puzzled at first be¬ 
cause I thought you so opposite to one another. 
But now I know that it was my mistake.” 




196 


ANTHONY JOHN 


They did not talk during the short remainder of 
their walk. At the gate of The Priory the old 
gentleman stopped and turned. 

“Kiss me, Anthony,” he said, “there’s nobody 
about.” 

Anthony did so. It seemed quite natural some¬ 
how. He watched Mr. Mowbray pass up the 
flagged causeway to the door and then went back 
to his work. 

Betty had been quite frank with him, or so he 
had thought. 

“It’s fortunate we didn’t marry,” she said. 
“What a muddle it would have ended in—or else a 
tragedy. Do you remember that talk we had one 
evening?” 

“Yes,” he answered. “You said that if you 
ever married it would be a man who would Tike’ 
you—think of you as a friend, a comrade.” 

“I know,” she laughed. “To be candid, I had 
you in my mind at the moment. I thought that you 
would always be so sane—the sort of husband one 
could rely upon never to kick over the traces. 
Curious how little we know one another.” 

“Would you really have been satisfied?” he 
asked, “when it came to the point. Would not you 
have demanded love as your right?” 

“I don’t think so,” she answered, musing. “I 



ANTHONY JOHN 


197 


suppose the explanation is that a woman’s love is 
maternal rather than sexual. It is the home she is 
thinking of more than the lover. Of course, I 
don’t mean in every case. There are women for 
whom their exists one particular He, or no other. 
But I fancy they are rare.” 

“I wonder sometimes,” he said, “what would 
have happened to me if I’d never met her. I sup¬ 
pose I should have gone on being quite happy and 
contented.” 

“There are finer things than happiness,” she 
answered. 

A child was born to them late in the year. 
Anthony had never seen a baby before, not at close 
quarters. In his secret heart, he was disappointed 
that it was not more beautiful. But as the days 
went by it seemed to him that this defect was pass¬ 
ing away. He judged it to be a very serious baby. 
It had large round serious eyes. Even its smile 
was thoughtful. They called it John Anthony. 

The elder Mrs. Strong’nth’arm resented the car¬ 
riage being sent down for her. She said she wasn’t 
so old that she could not walk a few miles to see her 
own grandson. Both she and Eleanor agreed that 
he was going to be like Anthony. His odd ways, 
it was, that so strongly reminded the elder Mrs. 
Strong’nth’arm of his father at the same age. 


198 


ANTHONY JOHN 


They came together over John Anthony, the elder 
and the younger Mrs. Strong’nth’arm. 

“It’s her artfulness,” had argued the elder Mrs. 
Strong’nth’arm to herself at first; “pretending to 
want my advice and hanging upon my words; while 
all the time, I reckon, she’s laughing at me.” 

But the next day or the day after she would come 
again to answer delightedly the hundred questions 
put to her—to advise, discuss, to gossip and 
to laugh—to remember on her way home that she 
had kissed the girl, promising to come again soon. 

Returning late one afternoon she met Anthony on 
the moor. 

“I’ve left her going to sleep,” she said. “Don’t 
disturb her. She doesn’t rest herself sufficiently. 
I’ve been talking to her about it. 

“I’m getting to like her,” she confessed shame¬ 
facedly. “She isn’t as bad as I thought her.” 

He laughed, putting an arm about her. 

“You’ll end by loving her,” he said. “You 
won’t be able to help it.” 

“It’ll depend upon you, lad,” she answered. 
“So long as your good is her good I shall be con¬ 
tent.” 

She kissed him good night for it was growing 
dusk. Neither he nor Eleanor had ever been able 
to persuade her to stay the night. With the nurs- 


ANTHONY JOHN 


199 


ery, which had been the former Lady Coomber’s 
dressing-room, she was familiar, having been one 
of the housemaids. But the big rooms on the 
ground floor overawed her. She never would enter 
by the great door, but always by a small side 
entrance leading to the house-keeper’s room. 
Eleanor had given instructions that it should always 
be left open. 

He walked on slowly after he had left his 
mother. There, where the sun was sinking behind 
the distant elms, she lay sleeping. At the bend of 
the road was the old white thorn that had witnessed 
their first kiss. Reaching it he looked round 
stealthily and, seeing no one, flung himself upon 
the ground and, stretching out his arms, pressed his 
lips to the sweet-smelling earth. 

He laughed as he rose to his feet. These lovers’ 
rhapsodies he had once thought idle nonsense! 
They were true. Going through fire and water— 
dying for her, worshipping the ground she trod on. 
This dear moorland with its lonely farmsteads and 
its scattered cots; its old folks with their furrowed 
faces, its little children with shy wondering eyes; 
its sandy hollows where the coneys frisked at twi¬ 
light; its hidden dells of fern and bracken where 
the primroses first blossomed; its high banks be¬ 
neath the birches where the red fox had his dwell- 


200 


ANTHONY JOHN 


ing; its deep woods, bird-haunted: always he would 
love it, for her sake. 

He turned and looked back and down the wind¬ 
ing road. The noisome town half-hidden by its 
pall of smoke lay stretched beneath him, a few 
faint lights twinkling from out the gloom. There 
too her feet had trod. Its long sad streets with 
their weary white-faced people; its foul, neglected 
places where the children played with dirt. This 
city of maimed souls and stunted bodies! It must 
be cleansed, purified—made worthy for her feet to 
pass. It should be his life’s work, his gift to his 
beloved. 


CHAPTER XIV 


L ADY COOMBER joined them in the spring. 
Jim’s regiment had been detained at Malta 
longer than had been anticipated. Her 
presence passed hardly noticed in the house. 
Anthony had seen to it that her little pensioners, the 
birds, had been well cared for, they began to gather 
round her the first moment that they saw her, as if 
they had been waiting for her, hoping for her re¬ 
turn. She herself could not explain her secret. 
She had only to stretch out her hand for them to 
come to her. She took more interest in the child 
than Eleanor had expected. She stole him away 
one morning, and was laughing when she brought 
him back. She had shown him to her birds and 
they had welcomed him with much chirruping and 
fluttering; and after that, whenever he saw her with 
her basket on her arm, he would stretch out his 
arms to her for her to take him with her. 

Another child was born to them in the winter. 
They called him after Eleanor’s brother Jim; and 
later came a girl. They called her Norah. And 
then Eleanor fell ill. Anthony was terror-stricken. 

He had never been able to accept the popular idea 

201 


202 


ANTHONY JOHN 


of God as a sort of kindly magician to whom appeal 
might he made for miraculous benefits in exchange 
for praise and adulation—who would turn aside 
sickness, stay death’s hand in response for impor¬ 
tunity. His common sense had revolted against it. 
But suddenly his reasoning faculties seemed to have 
deserted him Had he been living in the Middle 
Ages he would have offered God a pilgrimage or a 
church. As it was, he undertook to start without 
further delay his various schemes to benefit the 
poor of Millsborough. He would set to work at 
once upon those model-dwellings. It was always 
easy for him now to find financial backing for 
his plans. He remembered Betty’s argument: “I 
wouldn’t have anything started that couldn’t be 
made to pay its own way in the long run. If it 
can’t do that it isn’t real. It isn’t going to last.” 
She was right. As a sound business proposition, 
the thing would live and grow. It was justice not 
charity that the world stood most in need of. He 
worked it out. For the rent these slum landlords 
were exacting for insanitary hovels the workers 
could be housed in decent flats. Eleanor’s illness 
had been pronounced dangerous. No time was to 
be lost. The ground was bought and cleared. 
Landripp, the architect, threw himself into his 
labours with enthusiasm. 


ANTHONY JOHN 


203 


Landripp belonged to the new school of material¬ 
ists. His religion was the happiness of humanity. 
Man to him was a mere chance product of the 
earth’s crust, evolved in common with all other 
living things by chemical process. With the cool¬ 
ing of the earth—or may be its over-heating, it 
really did not matter which—the race would dis¬ 
appear—be buried, together with the history of its 
transient passing, beneath the eternal silences. Its 
grave might still roll on—to shape itself anew, to 
form out of its changed gases another race that in 
some future aeon might be interested in examining 
the excavated evidences of a former zoological 
period. 

Meanwhile the thing to do was to make man as 
happy as possible for so long as he lasted. This 
could best be accomplished by developing his sense 
of brotherhood out of which would be born justice 
and good will. Man was a gregarious animal. 
For his happiness he depended as much upon his 
fellows as upon his own exertions. The misery 
and suffering of any always, sooner or later, re¬ 
sulted in evil to the whole body. In society, as it 
had come to be constituted, the happiness of all was 
as much a practical necessity as was the health of 
all. For its own sake, a civilized community could 
no more disregard equity than it dare tolerate an 



204 ANTHONY JOHN 

imperfect drainage system. If the city was to be 
healthy and happy it must be seen to that each in¬ 
dividual citizen was healthy and happy. The pur¬ 
suit of happiness for ourselves depended upon our 
making others happy. It was for this purpose that 
the moral law had developed itself within us. So 
soon as the moral law within us came to be ac¬ 
knowledged as the only safe guide to all our ac¬ 
tions, so soon would Man’s road to happiness lie 
clear before him. 

That something not material, that something im¬ 
possible to be defined in material terms had some¬ 
how entered into the scheme, Mr. Landripp was 
forced to admit. In discussion, he dismissed it— 
this unknown quantity—as “superfluous energy.” 
But to himself the answer was not satisfactory. By 
this reasoning the superfluous became the indispen- 
sible, which was absurd. There was his own 
favourite phrase: The preservation of the species; 
the moral law within, compelling all creatures to 
sacrifice themselves for the good of their progeny. 
To Mr. Arnold S. Landripp, aware of his indebted¬ 
ness for his own existence to the uninterrupted 
working of this law; aware that his own paternal 
affections had for their object the decoying of 
Mr. Arnold S. Landripp into guarding and cherish¬ 
ing and providing for the future of Miss Emily 


ANTHONY JOHN 205 

Landripp; who in her turn would rejoice in labour 
for her children, and so ad infinitum, the phrase 
might have significance. His reason, perceiving 
the necessity of the law, justified its obligations. 

But those others? Unpleasant-looking insects— 
myriads of them—who wear themselves out for no 
other purpose than to leave behind them an egg, the 
hatching of which they will not live to sea. Why 
toil in darkness? Why not spend their few brief 
hours of existence basking in their beloved sun¬ 
shine? What to them the future of the Hymenop- 
tera? The mother bird with outstretched wings 
above the burning nest, content to die herself if 
only she may hope to save her young. Natural 
affection, necessary for the preservation of the 
species. Whence comes it? Whence the origin 
of this blind love—this blind embracing of pain 
that an unknown cause may triumph. 

Or take the case of Mr. Arnold S. Landripp’s 
own particular family. That hairy ancestor, fear- 
haunted, hunger-driven, fighting against monstrous 
odds to win a scanty living for himself. Why bur¬ 
den himself still further with a squalling brood 
that Mr. Arnold S. Landripp may eventually 
evolve? Why not knock them all on the head and 
eat the pig himself? Who whispered to him of the 
men of thought and knowledge who should one day 



206 


ANTHONY JOHN 

come, among whom Mr. Arnold S. Landripp, flesh 
of his flesh and bone of his bone, should mingle 
and have his being? 

Why does the present Mr. Landripp impair his 
digestion by working long into the night that Mills- 
borough slums may be the sooner swept away and 
room be made in Millsborough town for the build¬ 
ing of decent dwellings for Mr. Landripp’s poorer 
brethren? The benefiting of future generations! 
The preservation and improvement of the species? 
To what end? What sensible man can wax en¬ 
thusiastic concerning the progress of a race whose 
final goal is a forgotten grave beneath the debris of 
a derelict planet. 

To Mr. Landripp came also the reflection that a 
happiness that is not and cannot by its nature be 
confined to the individual, but is a part of the hap¬ 
piness of all; that can be marred by a withered 
flower and deepened by contemplation of the stars 
must, of necessity, have kinship with the Universal. 
That a happiness, the seeds of which must have 
been coeval with creation, that is not bounded 
by death must, of necessity, be linked with the 
Eternal. 

Working together of an evening upon the plans 
for the new dwellings, Anthony and he would often 
break off to pursue the argument. Landripp 


ANTHONY JOHN 207 

would admit that his own religion failed to answer 
all his questions. But Anthony’s religion con¬ 
tented him still less. Why should a just God, to 
whom all things were possible, have made man a 
creature of “low intelligence and evil instincts,” 
leaving him to welter through the ages amid 
cruelty, blood and lust, instead of fashioning him 
from the beginning a fit and proper heir for the 
kingdom of eternity? That he might work out his 
own salvation! That a few scattered fortunates, 
less predisposed to evil than their fellows or pos¬ 
sessed of greater powers of resistance, might 
struggle out of the mire—enter into their inherit¬ 
ance: the great bulk cursed from their birth, be left 
to sink into destruction. The Christ legend he 
found himself unable to accept. If true, then God 
was fallible. His omniscience a myth—a God who 
made mistakes and sought to rectify them. Even 
so. He had not succeeded. The number of true 
Christians—the number of those who sought to live 
according to Christ’s teaching were fewer today 
than under the reign of the Caesars. During the 
Middle Ages the dying embers of Christianity had 
burnt up anew. Saint Francis had insisted upon the 
necessity of poverty, of love—had preached the 
brotherhood of all things living. Men and women 
in increasing numbers had for a brief period ac- 




208 


ANTHONY JOHN 


cepted Christ not as their scapegoat but as their 
leader. There had been men like Millsborough’s 
own Saint Aldys—a successful business man, as 
business was understood in his day—who on his 
conversion had offered to the service of God not ten 
per cent, of his booty but his whole life. Any suc¬ 
cessful business man of today who attempted to 
follow his example would be certified by the family 
doctor as fit candidate for the lunatic asylum. Two 
thousand years after Christ’s death one man, so far 
as knowledge went, the Russian writer Tolstoy, had 
made serious attempt to live the life commanded by 
Christ. And all Christendom stood staring at him 
in stupefied amazement. If Christ had been God’s 
scheme for the reformation of a race that He Him¬ 
self had created prone to evil then it had tragically 
failed. Christianity, a feeble flame from the be¬ 
ginning, had died out, leaving the world darker, its 
last hope extinguished. 

They had been working long into the short June 
night. Landripp had drawn back the curtains and 
thrown open the window. There came from the 
east a faint pale dawn. 

“There is a God I could believe in, worship and 
work for,” he said. “Not the builder of the 
heaven and of the earth, who made the stars also. 
Such there may be. The watch presupposes the 




ANTHONY JOHN 


209 


watchmaker. I grant all that. But such is out¬ 
side my conception—a force, a law, whatever it 
may be, existing before the beginning of Time, hav¬ 
ing its abiding place beyond Space. The thing is 
too unhuman ever to be understood by man. The 
God I could love and serve is something lesser and 
yet perhaps greater than such.” 

He turned from the window and leaning against 
the mantelpiece continued: 

“There is a story by Jean Paul Richter, I think. 
I read the book when I was a student in Germany. 
There was rather a fine idea in it: at least so it 
seemed to me. The man in the story dies and be¬ 
yond the grave he meets Christ. And the Christ is 
still sad and troubled. The man asks why, and 
Christ confesses to him. He has been looking for 
God and cannot find Him. And the man comforts 
Him. Together they will seek God, and will yet 
find Him. I think it was a dream, I am not sure. 
It is the dream of the world, I suppose. Person¬ 
ally I have given up the search, thinking it hope¬ 
less. But I am not sure. Christ’s God I could be¬ 
lieve in, could accept. He is the God—the genius, 
if you prefer the word, of the human race. He is 
seeking—still seeking to make man in His own 
image. He has given man thought, consciousness, 
a soul. It has been slow work and He is still only 


210 


ANTHONY JOHN 


at the beginning of His labours. He is the spirit 
of love. It is by love, working for its kind, work¬ 
ing for its species, that man has evolved. It is only 
by love of his kind, of his species, that man can 
hope to raise himself still further. He is no God 
of lightnings and of thunders. The moral law 
within us, the voice of pity, of justice is His only 
means of helping us. The Manichaeans believed 
that Mankind was devil created. The evidence is 
certainly in their favour. The God that I am seek¬ 
ing is not the Omnipotent Master of the universe 
who could in the twinkling of an eye reshape man 
to His will. But a spirit, fighting against power¬ 
ful foes, whom I can help or hinder—the spirit of 
love, knocking softly without ceasing at the door 
of a deaf world. The wonder of Christ is that He 
was the first man to perceive the nature of God. 
The gods that the world had worshipped up till 
then—that the world still worships—are the gods 
man has made in his own image: gods glorying 
in their strength and power, clamouring for wor¬ 
ship, insisting on their ‘rights’; gods armed with 
punishments and rewards. Christ was the first 
man who conceived of God as the spirit of love, of 
service, a fellow labourer with man for the saving 
of the world.” 


ANTHONY JOHN 211 

Anthony was still seated at the long table, facing 
the light. 

“May it not be that you have found Him?” he 
said. “May He not be the God we are all seek¬ 
ing?” 

Landripp gave a short laugh. 

“He wouldn’t be popular,” he answered. “Not 
from Him would Job have obtained those fourteen 
thousand sheep and six thousand camels, and a 
thousand yoke of oxen and a thousand she asses 
as a reward for his patience. ‘The God from 
whom all blessings flow,’ that is the God man will 
praise and worship. The God I am seeking asks, 
not gives.” 

The plans were finished; the builders got to 
work. On the very day of the laying of the founda¬ 
tion-stone the doctors pronounced Eleanor out of 
danger. Anthony forgot his talks with Landripp. 
God had heard his prayer and had accepted his 
offering. He would continue to love and serve 
Him, and surely goodness and mercy would follow 
him all the days of his life. One of the minor 
steel foundries happened to be on the market. He 
obtained |Control and re-established it on a new 
profit-sharing principle that he had carefully 
worked out. His system would win through by 


212 


ANTHONY JOHN 


reason of its practicability; the long warfare be¬ 
tween capital and labour end in peace. His busi¬ 
ness genius should not be only for himself. God 
also should be benefited. He got together a small 
company for the opening of co-operative shops, 
where the poor should be able to purchase at fair 
prices. There should be no end of his activities 
for God. 

Eleanor came back to him more beautiful, it 
seemed to him, than she had ever been. They 
walked together, hand in hand, on the moor. She 
wanted to show him how strong she was. And 
coming to the old white thorn at the parting of 
the ways, she had raised her face to his; and he had 
drawn her to him and their lips had met, as if it 
had been for the first time. 

She would be unable to bear more children, but 
that did not trouble them. Little Jim and Norah 
grew and waxed strong and healthy. Norah prom¬ 
ised to be the living image of her mother. She had 
her mother’s faults and failings that Anthony so 
loved: her mother’s wilfulness with just that look 
of regal displeasure when any one offended or 
opposed her. But also with suggestion of her 
mother’s graciousness and kindness. 

Jim, likewise, took after the Coomber family. 
He had his uncle’s laughing eyes and all his ob- 


ANTHONY JOHN 


213 


stinacy, so Eleanor declared. He was full of mis¬ 
chief, but had coaxing ways and was the idol of the 
servants’ hall. 

John was more of the dreamer. Lady Coomber 
had taught him to read. She had grown strangely 
fond of the child. In summertime they would take 
their books into the garden. They had green 
hiding-places known only to themselves. And in 
winter they had their “cave” behind the great 
carved screen in the library. 

As time went by, Eleanor inclined more to¬ 
wards the two younger children. They were full 
of life and frolic, and were always wanting to do 
things. But Anthony’s heart yearned more to¬ 
wards John, his first-born. 


CHAPTER XV 


A GOD needing man’s help, unable without 
it to accomplish His purpose. A God 
calling to man as Christ beckoned to His 
disciples to follow him, forsaking all, to suffer and 
to labour with Him. The thought had taken hold 
of him from the beginning: that summer’s night 
when he and Landripp had talked together, until 
the dawn had drawn a long thin line of light be¬ 
tween the window curtains. 

And then had come Eleanor’s sudden recovery, 
when he had almost given up hope, on the very day 
of the laying of the foundation-stone of the new 
model dwellings; and it had seemed to him that 
God had chosen this means of revealing Himself. 
The God he had been taught. The God of his 
fathers. Who answered prayers, accepted the 
burnt offering, rewarded the faithful and believing. 
What need to seek further? The world was right. 
Its wise men and its prophets had discovered the 
true God. A God who made covenants and bar¬ 
gains with man. Why not? Why should not God 
take advantage of Anthony’s love for Eleanor to 

make a fair businesslike contract with him? 

214 


ANTHONY JOHN 


215 


“Help me with these schemes of yours for the hap¬ 
piness of my people and I will give you back your 
wife.” But the reflection would come: Why 
should an omnipotent God trouble Himself to bar¬ 
gain with His creatures, take round-about ways for 
accomplishing what could be done at once by a 
movement of His will? A God who could have 
made all things perfect from the beginning, be¬ 
yond the need of either growth or change. Who 
had chosen instead to write the history of the 
human race in blood and tears. Surely such a 
God would need man’s forgiveness, not his worship. 
The unknown God was yet to seek. 

Landripp had been killed during the building of 
the model dwellings. It had been his own fault. 
For a stout, elderly gentleman to run up and down 
swaying ladders, to scramble round chimney stacks, 
and balance himself on bending planks a hundred 
feet above the ground was absurd. There were 
younger men who could have done all that, who 
warned Mr. Landripp of the risks that he was run¬ 
ning. He had insisted on supervising everything 
himself. The work from its commencement had 
been to him a labour of love. He was fearful lest 
a brick should be ill-laid. 

Anthony had a curious feeling of annoyance as 
he looked upon the bruised and broken heap of 


216 


ANTHONY JOHN 


rubbish that had once been his friend. Landripp 
had been dead when they picked him up. They 
had put him on a stretcher and carried him round 
to his office. Anthony had heard the news almost 
immediately, and had reached Bruton Square as 
the men were coming out. The body lay on the 
big table in the room where he and Anthony had 
had their last long talk. The face had not suffered 
and the eyes were open. There may have been a 
lingering consciousness still behind them for it 
seemed to Anthony that for an instant they smiled 
at him. And then suddenly the light went out of 
them. 

It was tremendously vexing. He had been 
looking forward to renewal of their talks. There 
was so much he wanted to have said to him: ques¬ 
tions he had meant to put to him; thoughts of his 
own, that he had intended to discuss with him. 
Where was he? Where had he got to? It was 
ridiculous to argue that Landripp himself—the 
mind and thought of him—had been annihilated by 
coming into contact with a steel girder. Not even 
a cabbage dies. All that can happen to it is for it 
to be resolved into its primary elements to be re¬ 
born again. This poor bruised body lying where 
the busy brain had been at work only an hour be¬ 
fore, even that would live as long as the solar sys- 



ANTHONY JOHN 


217 


tem continued. Its decay would only mean its 
transformation. Landripp himself—the spirit that 
came and went—could not even have been hurt. 
The machinery through which it worked was shat¬ 
tered. Anthony could not even feel sorry for him. 
He was angry with him that he had not been more 
careful of the machinery. 

Landripp had been the first person with whom 
he had ever discussed religion. As a young man 
he had once or twice ventured the theme. But the 
result had only reminded him of his childish ex¬ 
periments in the same direction. At once, most 
people shrivelled up as if he had suggested an in¬ 
delicate topic, not to be countenanced in polite 
society. Especially were his inquiries discouraged 
by the clergy of all denominations. At the first 
mention of the subject they had always shown signs 
of distress—had always given to him the impres¬ 
sion that they were seeking to guard a trade secret. 
Landripp had opened his mind to the conception of 
a religion he could understand and accept. God 
all-powerful and glorious; the great omnipotent 
Being who had made and ordered all things! 
What could man do for such? As well might the 
clay ask how it could show its gratitude to the 
potter. To praise God, to adore Him, to fall down 
before Him, to worship Him, what use could that 



218 


ANTHONY JOHN' 


be to Him? That the creatures He had made 
should be everlastingly grovelling before Him, pro¬ 
claiming their own nothingness and His magnifi¬ 
cence: it was to imagine God on a par with an 
Oriental despot. To obey Him? He had no need 
of our obedience. All things had been ordered. 
Our obedience or disobedience could make no dif¬ 
ference to Him. It had been foreseen—fore-or¬ 
dained from the beginning. Even forgetting this 
—persuading ourselves that some measure of free¬ 
will had been conferred upon us, it was only for 
our own benefit. Obey and be rewarded, disobey 
and be punished. We were but creatures of His 
breath, our souls the puppets of His will. What 
was left to man but to endure? Even his endur¬ 
ance bestowed upon him for that purpose. It was 
death not life that God—if such were God—had 
breathed into man’s nostrils. 

But God the champion, the saviour of man. God 
the tireless lover of man, seeking to woo him into 
ever nobler ways. God the great dreamer, who out 
of death and chaos in the beginning had seen love; 
who beyond life’s hate and strife still saw the 
far-off hope, and called to men to follow Him. 
God the dear comrade, the everlasting friend, 
God the helper, the King. If one could find 
Him? 


ANTHONY JOHN 


219 


Landripp had left his daughter a few thousands; 
and she had decided to open a school again at 
Bruton Square, in the rooms that her father had 
used for his offices. Inheriting his conscientious¬ 
ness she had entered a training college to qualify 
herself as a teacher. Towards the end, quite a 
friendship had existed between Mrs. Strong’nth’arm 
and the Landripps. With leisure and freedom 
from everlasting worry her native peasant wit had 
blossomed forth and grown; and Landripp had 
found her a wise talker. She had become too 
feeble for the long walk up to The Abbey, but was 
frightened of the carriage with its prancing horses. 
So often Eleanor would send little John down to 
spend the afternoon with her. Old Mrs. Newt was 
dead; and, save for a little maid, she was alone in 
the house. She made no claim with regard to the 
two younger children. It was only about John she 
was jealous. 

One day she took the child to see the house in 
Platt’s Lane where his father had been bom. Old 
Witlock had finished his tinkering. His half¬ 
witted son Matthew lived there by himself. No 
one else ever entered it. Matthew cooked his own 
meals and kept it scrupulously clean. Most of the 
twenty-four hours he spent in the workshop. His 
skill and honesty brought him more jobs than he 


220 


ANTHONY JOHN 


needed, but he preferred to remain single-handed. 
The workshop door was never closed. All day, 
summer and winter, so long as Matthew was there 
working it remained wide open. At night Matthew 
slept there in a corner sheltered from the wind, and 
then it would be kept half-closed but so that any one 
who wished could enter. He would never answer 
questions as to this odd whim of his, and his neigh¬ 
bours had ceased thinking about it. They took a 
great fancy to one another, Matthew and the child. 
Old Mrs. Strong’nth’arm would sometimes leave 
him there, and his father would call for him on the 
way home. He had taken for his own the stool on 
which wandering Peter had many years ago carved 
the King of the Gnomes. And there he would sit 
by the hour swinging his little legs, discussing 
things in general with Matthew while he worked. 
At the child’s request Anthony had bought the 
house and workshop so that Matthew might never 
fear being turned out. 

There grew up in the child a strange liking for 
this dismal quarter, or rather three-quarters of the 
town of Millsborough that lay around Platt’s Lane. 
Often, when his father called for him of an after¬ 
noon at Bruton Square he would plead for a walk in 
their direction before going home. He liked the 
moorland, too, with its bird life and its little creep- 


ANTHONY JOHN 


221 


ing things in brake and cover that crouched so still 
while one passed by. There he would shout and 
scamper; and when he was tired his father would 
carry him on his shoulder. But in the long sad 
streets he was less talkative. 

One day, walking through them, Anthony told 
him how, long ago, before the mean streets came, 
there had been green fields and flowers with a little 
river winding its way among the rocks and through 
deep woods. 

“What made the streets come?” the child asked. 

Riches had been discovered under the earth, so 
Anthony explained to him. Before this great dis¬ 
covery the people of the valley had lived in little 
cottages—just peasants, tilling their small farms, 
tending their flocks. A few hundred pounds would 
have bought them all up. Now it was calculated 
that the winding Wyndbeck flowed through the 
richest valley in all England. 

“What are riches?” asked the child. “What 
do they do?” 

Riches, his father explained to him, were what 
made people well off and happy. 

“I see,” said John. But he evidently did not, 
as his next question proved conclusively. 

“Then are all the people happy who live here 
now?” he asked. They had passed about a score 


222 


ANTHONY JOHN 


of them during the short time they had walked in 
silence. “Why don’t they look it?” 

It had to be further explained to John that the 
riches of the valley did not belong to the people 
who lived and died in the valley, who dug the coal 
and iron or otherwise handled it. To be quite 
frank, these sad-eyed men and women who now 
dwelt beside the foul black Wyndbeck were perhaps 
worse off than their forbears who had dwelt here 
when the Wyndbeck flowed through sunlit fields 
and shady woods, undreaming of the hidden wealth 
that lay beneath their careless feet. But to a few 
who lived in fine houses, more or less far away, in 
distant cities, in pleasant country places. It was 
these few who had been made well off and happy 
by the riches of the valley. The workers of the 
valley did not even know the names of these scat¬ 
tered masters of theirs. 

He had not meant to put it this way. But little 
John had continually chipped in with those direct 
questions that a child will persist in asking. And, 
after all, it was the truth. 

Besides, as he went on to explain still further to 
little John, they were not all unhappy, these dirty, 
grimy, dull-eyed men and women in their ugly 
clothes living in ugly houses in long ugly streets 
under a sky that rained soot. Some of them 


ANTHONY JOHN 223 

earned high wages—had, considering their needs, 
money to bum, as the saying was. 

“I see,” said John again. It was an irritating 
habit of his, to preface awkward questions with, I 
see. “Then does having money make everybody 
happy?” 

It was on the tip of Anthony’s tongue. He was 
just about to snap it out. Little John mustn’t 
worry his little head about things little Jacks can’t 
be expected to understand. Little boys must wait 
till they are grown-up, when the answer to all these 
seemingly difficult questions will be plain to them. 
But as he opened his lips to speak there sprang 
from the muddy pavement in front of him a little 
impish lad dressed in an old pair of his father’s 
trousers, cut down to fit him, so that the baggy part 
instead of being about the knee was round his 
ankles—a little puzzled lad who in his day had 
likewise plagued poor grown-up folk with questions 
it might have been the better for them had they 
tried to answer. 

“No, John,” he answered. “It doesn’t make 
them happy. I wonder myself sometimes what’s 
the good of it. How can they be happy even if 
they do earn big money, a few of them. The 
hideousness, the vileness that is all around them. 
What else can it breed but a sordid joyless race. 


224 


ANTHONY JOHN 


They spend their money on things stupid and gross. 
What else can you expect of them. You bring a 
child up in the gutter and he learns to play with 
mud, and likes it.” 

They were walking where the streets crept up the 
hillside. Over a waste space where dust and ashes 
lay they could see far east and west. The man 
halted and flung out his arms. 

“The Valley of the Wyndbeck. So they call it 
on the map. It ought to be the gutter of the Wynd¬ 
beck. One long, foul, reeking gutter where men 
and women walk in darkness and the children play 
with dirt.” 

He had forgotten John. The child slipped a 
hand into his. 

“Won’t the fields ever come back?” he asked. 

Anthony shook his head. “They’ll never come 
back,” he said. “Nothing to do for it, John, but 
to make the best of things as they are. It will al¬ 
ways be a gutter with mud underneath and smoke 
overhead, and poison in its air. We must make it 
as comfortable a gutter as the laws of supply and 
demand will permit. At least we can give them 
rainproof roofs and sound floors and scientific 
drainage, and baths where they can wash the ever¬ 
lasting dirt out of their pores before it becomes a 
part of their skin.” 


ANTHONY JOHN 


225 


From where they were they could see the new 
model dwellings towering high above the maze of 
roofs around them. 

“We’ll build them a theatre, John. They shall 
have poetry and music. We’ll plan them recrea¬ 
tion grounds where the children can run and play. 
We’ll have a picture gallery and a big bright hall 
where they can dance.” 

He broke off suddenly. “Oh, Lord, as if it 
hadn’t all been tried,” he groaned. “Two thou¬ 
sand years ago, they thought it might save Rome. 
Bread and circuses, that is not going to save the 
world.” 

They had reached, by chance, Platt’s Lane. The 
door of the workshop stood open as ever. They 
could hear the sound of Matthew’s hammer and see 
the red glow of the furnace fire. John slipped 
away from his father’s side, and going to the open 
door called to Matthew. 

Matthew turned. There was a strange look in his 
eyes. The child laughed, and Matthew coming 
nearer saw who it was. 

It was late, so after exchanging just a greeting 
with Matthew they walked on. Suddenly John 
caught his father by the sleeve. 

“Do you think he is still alive,” he said, Christ 

Jesus?” 


226 


ANTHONY JOHN 


Anthony was in a hurry. He had ordered the 
carriage to wait for them in Bruton Square. 

“What makes you ask?” he said. 

“Matthew thinks he is,” explained the child, 
“and that He still goes about. That is why he al¬ 
ways leaves the door open, so that if Christ passes 
by He may see him and call to him.” 

Anthony was still worried about the time. He 
had to see a man on business before going home. 
He promised little John they would discuss the 
question some other time. But, as it happened, the 
opportunity never came. 


CHAPTER XVI 


T HERE came a day when Betty returned to 
take up her residence at The Priory. 
Since her father’s death she had been 
travelling. At first she and Anthony had corre¬ 
sponded regularly. They had discussed religion, 
politics, the science of things in general; he telling 
her of changes and happenings at home, and she 
telling him of her discoveries abroad. She wanted 
to see everything there was to be seen for herself, 
and then seek to make use of her knowledge; she 
would, of course, write a book. But after his 
eldest son’s death, which had happened when the 
child was about eight years old, Anthony for a 
time had not cared to write. Added to which there 
were long periods during which Betty had dis¬ 
appeared into ways untrodden of the postman. 
Letters had passed between them at ever-lengthen¬ 
ing intervals, dealing so far as Anthony was con¬ 
cerned chiefly with business matters. It seemed 
idle writing about himself: his monotonous pros¬ 
perity and unclouded domestic happiness. There 
were times when he would have been glad of a 

friend to whom he could have trusted secrets, but 

227 


228 


ANTHONY JOHN 


the thread had been broken. Conscious of strange 
differences in himself, he could not be sure that 
Betty likewise had not altered. Her letters re¬ 
mained friendly, often affectionate, but he no 
longer felt he knew her. Indeed there came to him 
the doubt that he ever had. 

It was on a winter’s afternoon that Anthony, 
leaving his office, walked across to The Priory to 
see her. She had been back about a week, but 
Anthony had been away up north on business. She 
had received him in the little room above the hall 
that had always been her particular sanctum. Mr. 
Mowbray, when he had let the house furnished to 
his cousin, had stipulated that this one room should 
remain locked. Nothing in it had been altered. 
A wood fire was burning in the grate. Betty was 
standing in the centre of the room. She came for¬ 
ward to meet him with both hands: 

“It’s good to see you again,” she said. “But 
what have you done to your hair, lad?” She 
touched it lightly with her fingers. She pushed 
him into the easy chair beside the blazing fire and 
remained herself standing. 

He laughed. “Oh, we grow grey early in Mills- 
borough,” he said. 

He was looking up at her puzzled. “I’ve got 
it,” he said suddenly. 


ANTHONY JOHN 229 

“Got what?” she laughed. 

“The difference in you,” he answered. “You 
were the elder of us when I saw you last, and now 
you are the younger. I don’t mean merely in ap¬ 
pearance.” 

“It’s a shame,” she answered gravely. “You’ve 
been making money for me to spend. It’s that has 
made you old. They’re all so old, the money¬ 
makers. I’ve met so many of them. Haven’t you 
made enough?” 

“Oh, it isn’t that,” he answered. “It gets to be 
a habit. I shouldn’t know what else to do with my¬ 
self now.” 

She made him talk about himself. It was dif¬ 
ficult at first, there seemed so little to tell. Jim 
was at Rugby and was going into the Guards. His 
uncle, Sir James, had married, and had three chil¬ 
dren, a boy and two girls. But the boy had been 
thrown from his pony while learning to ride and 
was a cripple. So it was up to young Strong’nth’- 
arm to take over the Coomber tradition. As he 
would have plenty of money all would be easy. 
His uncle was still in India, but was coming back in 
the spring. He had been appointed to Aldershot. 

Norah was at Cheltenham. The Coomber girls 
had always gone to Cheltenham. She had ideas of 
her own and was anxious herself to cut school life 


230 


ANTHONY JOHN 


short and finish her education abroad in Vienna. 
One of the disadvantages of being rich was that it 
separated you from your children. But for that 
the boy could have gone to his old friend Tet- 
teridge. So far as education was concerned, he 
would have done better. The girl could have gone 
to Miss Landripp’s at Bruton Square. They would 
have been all together and it would have been jolly. 

Eleanor was wonderful. Betty would find her 
looking hardly a day older than when she had last 
seen her. 

Betty laughed. “Good for you, lad,” she said. 
“It means you are still seeing her through lover’s 
eyes. It’s seventeen years ago, the date you are 
speaking of.”* 

Anthony could hardly believe it at first, but had 
to yield to facts. He still maintained that Eleanor 
was marvellous. Most women in her position 
would have clamoured for fashion and society— 
would have filled The Abbey with her swell friends 
and acquaintances, among whom Anthony would 
always have felt himself an outsider—would have 
insisted on a town house and a London season, 
Homburg and the Riviera—all that sort of thing: 
leaving Anthony to grind away at the money mill 
in Millsborough. That was what his mother had 
always feared. His mother had changed her 


ANTHONY JOHN 


231 


opinion about Eleanor long ago. She had come to 
love her. Of course, when Norah came home there 
would have to be changes. But by that time it 
would all fit in. He would be done with money¬ 
making. He had discovered—or, rather, Eleanor 
had discovered it for him—that he was a good 
speaker. She had had to bully him, at first, into 
making the attempt; and the result had surprised 
even her. He might go into Parliament. Not with 
any idea of a political career, but to advocate re¬ 
forms that he had in his mind. Parliament gave 
one a platform. One spoke to the whole country. 

Tea had been brought. They were sitting op¬ 
posite to one another at a small table near the fire. 

“It reminds one of old times,” said Betty. 
“Do you remember our long walks and talks to¬ 
gether up on the moor, we three. We had to 
shout to drown the wind.” 

He did not answer immediately. He was look¬ 
ing at a reflection of himself in a small Venetian 
mirror on the opposite wall. It came back to him 
what old Mr. Mowbray had once said to him, as to 
his growing likeness to Ted. There was a sugges¬ 
tion, he could see it himself, especially about the 
eyes. 

“Yes,” he answered. “I remember. Ted was 
the dreamer. He dreamed of a new world. You 



232 


ANTHONY JOHN 


were for the practical. You wanted improvements 
made in the old.” 

“Yes,” she answered. “I thought it could be 
done.” 

He shook his head. 

“You were wrong,” he said. “We were the 
dreamers. It was Ted had all the common sense.” 

“Oh, yes, I go on,” he said in answer to her look. 
“What else is to be done. There used to be hope 
in the world. Now one has to pretend to hope. I 
hoped model dwellings were going to do away with 
the slums. There are miles more slums in Mills- 
borough today than there were ten years ago; and 
myself, if I had to choose now I’d prefer the slums. 
I’d feel less like being in prison. But we did all 
we could. We put them in baths. It was a new 
idea in Millsborough. The local Press was 
shocked. ‘Pampering the Proletariat,’ was one of 
their headlines. They could have saved their ink. 
Our bath was used to keep the coals in. If they 
didn’t do that, they emptied their slops into it. It 
saved them the trouble of walking to the sink. We 
gave them all the latest sanitary improvements, and 
they block the drains by turning the places into 
dustbins. And those that don’t, throw their muck 
out the window. They don’t want cleanliness 
and decency. They were bom and bred in mud 


ANTHONY JOHN 


233 


and the dirt sticks to them; and they bring up their 
children not to mind it. And so it will go on. Of 
course, there are the few. You will find a few neat 
homes in the filthiest of streets. But they are lost 
among the mass, just as they were before. It has 
made no permanent difference. Millsborough is 
blacker, fouler, viler than it was when we started in 
to clean it. Garden suburbs. We began one of 
those five years ago on the slopes above Leeford, 
and already it has its Alsatia where its disreput¬ 
ables gather together for mutual aid and comfort. 
What is it all, but clearing a small space and plant¬ 
ing a garden in the middle of a jungle. Sooner or 
later the jungle closes in again. Every wind blows 
in seeds. 

<4 This profit-sharing. I can see the end of that. 
They quarrel among themselves over the sharing. 
Who shall have the most. Who shall be forced to 
accept least. And the strong gather together: it is 
for them to dictate the division; and the weaker 
snarl and curse, but have to yield. And brother 
is against brother, and father is against son. And 
so the old game of greed and grab begins anew. 
Co-operative shops. And the staff is for ever in¬ 
sisting on the prices being raised to their own kith 
and kin, so that their wages may be increased out 
of the profits. And when I expostulate they talk 


234 


ANTHONY JOHN 


to me about my own companies and the fine divi¬ 
dends we earn by charging high prices to our neigh¬ 
bours.” He laughed. 

“You remember Sheepskin,” he went on, “the 
old vicar? The Reverend Horace Pendergast has 
got the job now. He’s a cousin of Eleanor’s—rat¬ 
tling good preacher. We’re hoping to make him a 
bishop. I went to see the old mar^ once, when I was 
a youngster, to arrange about my uncle’s funeral, 
and he threw me in a sermon. I don’t know why— 
I wasn’t worrying much about religion in those 
days—but I can still see his round, pink, puzzled 
face and his little fat hands that trembled as he 
talked. It was near Christmas time—Christ’s 
birthday; and all that he could think about, he told 
me, were the Christmas bills and how to meet them. 
It wasn’t his fault. How can a respectable married 
man be a Christian? ‘How can I preach Christ?’ 
—there were tears in his eyes. ‘Christ the outcast, 
the beggar, the servant of the poor, the bearer of 
the Cross.’ That’s what he had started out to 
preach. The people would only have laughed at 
him. He lives in a big house, they would have 
said, and keeps four servants and a gig. His sons 
go to college, and his wife and daughters wear rich 
garments. ‘Struggle enough I find it, Strong’nth’- 
arm,’ he confessed to me. ‘But I ought not to be 



ANTHONY JOHN 235 

struggling to do it. I ought to be down among the 
people, preaching Christ, not only with my lips but 
with my life.’ It isn’t talkers for God, it is fighters 
for God that are wanted. Men who are not afraid 
of the world!” 

The daylight had faded. Betty had pushed the 
table into a comer. They sat beside the blazing 
logs. 

“Some years ago,” said Betty, “I travelled from 
San Francisco to Hong Kong in company with a 
Chinese gentleman. It was during the off-season, 
and half a dozen of us had the saloon to ourselves. 
There were two commercial travellers and a young 
missionary and his wife. By process of natural 
selection—at least so I like to believe—Mr. Cheng 
and myself chummed on. He was one of the most 
interesting men I have met, and I think he liked 
talking to me. I remember one brilliantly clear 
night we were alone together on the deck. I was 
leaning back in my chair looking up at the Southern 
Cross. Suddenly I heard him say that the great 
stumbling block in the way of man’s progress was 
God. Coming from anybody else the remark 
would have irritated me; but I knew he wasn’t try¬ 
ing to he clever; and as he went on to explain him¬ 
self I found myself in agreement with him. Man’s 
idea of God is of some all-powerful Being who is 



236 


ANTHONY JOHN 


going to do everything for him. Man has no need 
to exert himself; God, moving in mysterious ways, 
is labouring to make the world a paradise where 
man may dwell in peace and happiness. All man 
has to do is to trust in God and practise patience. 
Man if he took' the task in hand for himself could 
turn this world into a paradise tomorrow without 
waiting for God. But it would mean man giving 
up his greeds and passions. It is easier to watch 
and pray. God has promised man the millenium, 
in the dim and distant future. Men by agreeing to¬ 
gether could have the millenium ready in time for 
their own children. When man at last grasps the 
fact that there is no God—no God, that is, in the 
sense that he imagines— that whatever is going to 
be done for him has got to be done by himself, there 
will be born in man the will to accomplish his own 
salvation. It is this idea of man as the mere crea¬ 
ture—the mere puppet of God—powerless to 
save himself, helpless to avert his own fate, that 
through the ages has paralysed man’s spiritual 
energies. 

“God is within us. We are God. Man’s free 
will is boundless. His future is in his own hands. 
Man has only to control his evil instincts and 
heaven is here; Man can conquer himself. Of his 
own will, he does so every day. For the purposes 




ANTHONY JOHN 


237 


of business, of pleasure, of social intercourse, he 
puts a curb upon his lusts and passions. It is only 
the savage, the criminal that lets them master him. 
Man is capable of putting greed and selfishness out 
of his life. History, a record of man’s sin and 
folly, is also a record of man’s power to overcome 
within himself the obstacles that stand in the way 
of his own progress. 

“Garibaldi called upon his volunteers to dis¬ 
regard all worldly allurements, to embrace suffer¬ 
ing, wounds and death for the cause of Italian unity. 
And the young men flocked to his banners. Let the 
young men once grasp that not God but they them¬ 
selves can win for all mankind fredom and joy, 
and an ever-increasing number of them will be 
willing to make the necessary sacrifice. 

“One man showed them the way. There have, at 
various times, been born exceptional men through 
whom the spirit we call God has been able to 
manifest itself, to speak aloud to men. Of all 
these, your Christ was perhaps more than any 
of the others imbued with this spirit of God. In 
Christ’s voice we recognize the voice of God. 
It is the voice we hear within us, speaking to 
each of us individually. Christ’s one command¬ 
ment: ‘Love one another,’ is the command¬ 
ment that God has been whispering to us from 


238 


ANTHONY JOHN 


the beginning of creation. Out of that Command¬ 
ment life sprang. Through that commandment 
alone can life be made perfect. Love one another. 
It would solve every problem that has plagued man¬ 
kind since the dawn of the Eocene epoch. It would 
recall man’s energies from the barren fields of 
strife to mutual labour for the husbandry of all the 
earth. In the words of your prophet: ‘The Wilder¬ 
ness be made glad, the desert rejoice and blossom 
as the rose.’ Why has man persisted in turning a 
deaf ear to this one supreme commandment? 
Why does man persistently refuse to follow the one 
guide who would lead him out of all his sorrows? 
To love is as easy as to hate. Why does he set him¬ 
self deliberately to cultivate the one and not the 
other? There is no more reason for a French 
peasant hating a German farm labourer, for a white 
man hating a brown man, for a Protestant hating a 
Catholic, than for loving him. But our hate we 
take pains to nourish, it is a part of our education. 
We teach it to our children. At the altar of hate 
man is willing to make sacrifice; he will give to 
his last penny. On the altar of hate the mother 
will consent to the slaying of her own first-born. 
All things that are good come to man through love. 
No man denies this. No man but seeks, within the 
circle of his own home, to surround himself with 


ANTHONY JOHN 


239 


love. Life without love is every man’s fear. To 
gain and keep love man sacrifices his own ease and 
comfort. To love is sweeter than to hate. Man 
watches himself, lest by sloth or indifference he 
should let love die; plans and labours to strengthen 
and increase love. If he would, he could love all 
men. If man took the same pains to cultivate his 
will to love that he takes to cultivate his will to hate, 
he could change the world. 

“Man excuses himself for disregarding Christ’s 
express commandment by telling himself that the 
salvation of the world is God’s affair, not his. 
God’s love will make for man’s benefit a new 
heaven and a new earth. There is no need for 
man to bestir himself. While man pursues his 
greeds and hatreds God is busy preparing the 
miracle. One day, man is to wake up and find, to 
his joy, that he loves his fellow man; and the tears 
of the world will be wiped away. It is not God, 
it is man that must accomplish the miracle. It is 
by man’s own endeavour that he will be saved; by 
cleansing himself of hate, by setting himself in all 
seriousness to this great business of loving. Until 
he obeys Christ’s commandment he shall not enter 
the promised land. 

“I have put it more or less into my own words,” 
she explained, “but I have given you the sense of 


240 


ANTHONY JOHN 


it. He thought the time would come—perhaps soon 
—when the thinkers of the world would agree that 
civilization had been progressing upon a wrong line 
—that if destruction was to be avoided, man must 
retrace his steps. He thought that, apart from all 
else, the mere instinct of self-preservation would 
compel the race to turn aside from the pursuit of 
material welfare to the more important wt>rk of its 
spiritual development. He did not expect any con¬ 
scious or concerted movement. Rather he believed 
that men and women in increasing numbers would 
withdraw themselves from the world, that they 
might live lives in conformity with God’s laws. 
He was a curious mixture of the religious and the 
scientific. He often employed the word God, but 
could not explain what he meant beyond that he 
‘felt’ him. He held that the only altar at which a 
reasonable man could worship was the altar erected 
by the Greeks: ‘To the Unknown God.’ Christ he 
regarded as a Promethean figure who had received 
the fire from heaven and brought it down to men. 
That fire would never be extinguished. The spirit 
of Christ still moved about the world. It was the 
life force behind what little love still glowed and 
flickered among men. One day the smouldering 
embers would burst into flame.” 



ANTHONY JOHN 


241 


Betty put in two or three years at The Priory on 
and off, occupying herself chiefly with writing. 
But the wanderlust had got into her blood, and her 
book finished she grew restless. 

One day Anthony and Eleanor had dined with 
her at The Priory. Eleanor had run away im¬ 
mediately after dinner to attend a committee meet¬ 
ing of the Children’s Holiday Society of which she 
was the president. Betty, she was sure, sym¬ 
pathized sufficiently with the movement to forgive 
her. She would be back soon after nine. Betty 
and Anthony took their coffee in the library. 

“I wanted you both to come tonight,” she ex¬ 
plained. “I’ve got into a habit of acting suddenly 
when an impulse seizes me. I may wake up any 
morning and feel I’ve got to go.” 

“Whither?” he asked. 

“How much money can I put my hands on within 
the next few months?” she asked. 

She had warned him that she might be talking 
business. He mentioned a pretty considerable 
sum. 

“All earned by the sweat of other people’s 
brows,” she commented with a smile. 

“You give away a pretty good deal of it,” he re¬ 
minded her consolingly. 


242 


ANTHONY JOHN 


“Oh, yes,” she said, “I am very good. I take 
from them with one hand and give them back thirty 
per cent, of it with the other; that’s what our 
charity means. And it doesn’t really help, that’s 
the irritating part of it. It’s just the pouring out 
of a libation to the God-of-Things-as-they-are. 
‘The poor always ye have with you.’ ” 

“I sometimes think,” he said, “that Christ, when 
he told the young man to sell all he had and give it 
to the poor, was thinking rather of the young man 
than of the poor. It would have done them but 
such fleeting good. But to the young man it meant 
the difference between slavery and freedom. To 
be quit of it all. His horses and his chariots. His 
fine houses and his countless herds. His army of 
cringing servants. His horde of fawning clients. 
How could he win life, bound hand and foot to 
earth? Not even his soul was his own. It be¬ 
longed to his great possessions.” 

She was going into central Russia. She had 
passed through there some years ago and had hap¬ 
pened upon one of its ever recurring famines. 
There was talk of another in the coming winter. 

“The granary of Europe,” she continued. “I 
believe we import one-third of our grain from 
Russia. And every year the peasants die there of 
starvation by the thousands. That year I was there 


ANTHONY JOHN 243 

they reckoned a hundred thousand perished in one 
valley. They were eating the corpses of the chil¬ 
dren. And on my way to St. Petersburg I passed 
stations where the corn was rotting by the roadside. 
The price had fallen and it wasn’t worth transport¬ 
ing. The devil must get some fun looking down 
upon the world.” 

He had been standing by the window with his 
hands in his pockets. It was still twilight. He 
swung round suddenly. 

“I believe in the Devil,” he said. “I don’t 
mean the devil that we sing about—the discontented 
angel that God has let out at the end of a chain, 
that is finally to be destroyed when he has served 
God’s purpose. But the eternal spirit of evil that 
is a part of all things—that brooded over chaos be¬ 
fore God came. He also must be our father. 
Hate, cruelty, lust, greed: how else were we born 
with them? Would they have come to us from 
God. Evil also claims us for his children—is 
fighting for possession of us, is calling to us to 
labour with him, to turn the world into hell. 
Hate one another. Do ill to one another. That is 
his commandment. Which does the world obey: 
God or the Devil? Does hate or love rule the 
world? Whom does the world honour? The 
greedy man, the selfish man, the man who ‘gets on’ 


244 


ANTHONY JOHN 


by trampling on his fellows. Who are the world’s 
leaders? The makers of war, the preachers of 
hate. Who dares to follow Christ—to fight for 
God. How many? That’s the trouble of it. ‘If 
any man will come after me, let him deny himself 
and take up his cross.’ Poverty, self-denial, con¬ 
tempt, loneliness. We are afraid.” 

He took a cigar from his case. 

“It could be done,” he said. “That’s the 
tragedy of it. The victory won for God: if only a 
few of us had the courage. There are thousands 
of men and women in this England of ours alone 
who believe—who are convinced that the only hope 
of the world lies in our following the teaching of 
Christ. If these thousands of men and women were 
to say, each to himself, ‘I will no longer sin against 
the light that is within me. Whatever others 
may do—whatever the difficulties, the privations 
to myself may be, I will lead Christ’s life, I will 
obey his commandments.’ If here in Millsborough 
there were, say, only a handful of men and women 
known to be trying to lead Christ’s life, some of 
them rich men who had given up their possessions, 
feeling that so long as there is poverty in the world 
no man who loves his neighbour as himself can 
afford to be rich. Others, poor men and women 
content to remain poor, knowing that to gain riches 




ANTHONY JOHN 245 

one must serve Mammon and not God. A handful 
of men and women, scattered, silent, putting them¬ 
selves forward only when some work for Christ was 
to be done. A handful of men and women labour¬ 
ing in quietness and in confidence to prepare the 
way for God: teaching their children new desires, 
new ambitions. 

“Some would fail. But others would succeed. 
More would follow. It needs only a few to 
set the example. It would appeal to all generous 
men and women, to the young. Fighting for 
God. Fighting with God to save the world. Not 
to save oneself—not to get one’s own sweet self into 
heaven. That is the mistake that has been made: 
Appealing to the self that is in man, instead 
of to the Christ that is in man. ‘Believe and thou 
shalt be saved.’ It is an appeal to man’s greed, 
to his self-interest. It is heroes God wants, not 
mercenaries. Never mind yourself. Forget the 
wages. Help God to save the world. This little 
land of England, this poor, sad, grimy town of 
Millsborough, where each man hates his neighbour 
and the children play with dirt. Help God to make 
it clean and sweet. Help God to wipe away the 
tears of the world. Help God to save all men. 

“We talk about the Spirits of Good and Evil, as 
if Evil were of its own nature subordinate to the 


246 


ANTHONY JOHN 


Good—as if God’s victory were certain; a mere 
matter of time. How do we know? Evil was the 
first-born. All things that do not fight against it 
revert to it. How do we know it will not triumph 
in the end. God is not winning. God is being 
driven back. Man will not help. Once His fol¬ 
lowers were willing to suffer—to die for Him. 
Today we are afraid of a little ridicule—of a few 
privations. We think it can be done by preaching 
—by the giving of alms. There is but one way to 
fight for God: the way of Christ. Let the young 
man deny himself, take up his cross.” 

There had followed a silence. How long it 
lasted neither could have told. The door opened 
and Eleanor entered. 

She was full of her meeting. The committee 
had settled to send two hundred children for a fort¬ 
night to the seaside. She had let Anthony in for a 
hundred guineas. She laughed. 

Betty explained that they might not be meeting 
again for some time. She was off to Russia. 
Eleanor was curious and Betty explained her plans. 

Eleanor was seated on the arm of Anthony’s 
chair. She had noticed he was not smoking, and 
had lighted his cigar for him. 

“It was poor mother’s sorrow,” she said. 46 4 I 
have never done anything,’ she confided to me once 



ANTHONY JOHN 


247 


towards the end. I have given away a little money, 
but it was never mine to give. It never cost me 
anything. I want to give myself. It is the only 
gift that heals.” 

Eleanor jumped down from her perch, and tak¬ 
ing Betty’s face in her hands kissed her. 

“How fine of you,” she said. “I rather envy 
you.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


OW to tell her? The door was not quite 
closed. He could hear her voice giving 
directions to the maid, the rustling of 
garments, the opening and shutting of drawers. 
Later, he would hear her wish the maid good night; 
and then the door would open and she would come 
in for their customary talk before going to bed. 
It was the hour when she had always seemed to him 
most beautiful, clad in loose shimmering robes, 
veiling her wonderful whiteness. Tonight she 
would clasp her soft arms round his neck and, 
laughing, tell him how proud she was of him. All 
the evening he had read the promise of it in her 
eyes. And they would kiss, perhaps for the last 
time. 

Could he not put it off—again, for the hundredth 
time? Was it not cruel to choose this night? It 
had been a day of roses, and she had been so 
happy. In the morning there had been the unveil¬ 
ing of the war memorial, the great granite cross 
with the four bronze guns at its base. It stood high 
up on the crest of the moor, for all the town to see, 

the sky for its background; and carved in golden 

248 





ANTHONY JOHN 


249 


letters round its pedestal, so that the cold grey cross 
seemed, as it were, to have grown out of their 
blood, the names of the young men who had given 
their lives that England might rejoice. His speech 
had been a supreme success. It had moved the 
people as such speeches rarely do, for with every 
word he uttered he had been thinking of himself. 

Even his two children, occasionally critical of 
him, had congratulated him. The boy had had 
tears in his eyes. He had looked very handsome 
in his weather-stained uniform, in spite of the 
angry scar across his cheek. He had taken things 
into his own hands at the beginning of the war, had 
enlisted as a private, and had won his commission 
on the field. For Norah, the war had happened at 
a providential moment. During the suffrage move¬ 
ment she had caused Eleanor many a sleepless 
night. The war had caught her up and directed 
her passions into orthodox channels. It had done 
even better for her. It had thrown her into the 
company of quite a nice boy, with only a consump¬ 
tive cousin between him and an ancient peerage. 
To Anthony himself, the war had brought, without 
any effort of his own, increasing wealth and power. 
Millsborough had become a shining centre for the 
output of munitions. Anthony’s genius for organi¬ 
zation had been the motive force behind. At the 


250 


ANTHONY JOHN 


luncheon that had followed the unveiling of the 
memorial a Cabinet Minister had dropped hints. 
Eleanor’s prophecy of long ago that Anthony 
would become a millionaire with a seat in the 
House of Lords would all come true. 

In the evening the great new dining-room, 
fashioned out of the ruins of what had once been 
the monk’s refectory, had been thrown open for the 
first time. All their world and his wife had dined 
there; his fellow-townsmen who had grown up with 
him, who had watched, admired and envied his 
marvellous career; county folk from far and near; 
famous folk, humble folk. The Reverend Horace 
Pendergast, most eloquent of divines, and soon to 
be a bishop, had proposed the toast of “The un¬ 
crowned king of Millsborough,” his dear and well- 
beloved cousin Anthony Strong’nth’arm—had quo¬ 
ted scripture appropriate in speaking of one so 
evidently singled out for favour by the Lord. 
General Sir James Coomber, in a short, blunt 
speech, had seconded the toast, claiming merit for 
himself as having from the first, and against family 
opposition, encouraged his sister to stick to her 
guns and marry the man of her choice. Not that 
she had needed much encouragement, Jim had 
added amid laughter. She would have done it, 
was Jim’s opinion, if all the King’s horses, and all 



ANTHONY JOHN 251 

the King’s men had tried to prevent her. And 
from Eleanor, seated at the other end of the long; 
table, had come a distinct “Hear, hear,” followed^ 
by more laughter. Others, one after another, had 
risen spontaneously to add their testimony to the 
honour and affection with which he was regarded 
throughout Millsborough, and all round about. 

And then an odd thing had happened. As he 
rose to respond there came into his mind the sudden 
thought that here within the space of these same 
walls must often have supped his namesake, the 
monk Anthony. And with the thought there came 
the face and form of the young monk plainly be¬ 
fore him. It entered by a small serving door that 
stood ajar, and slipped into a vacant seat left empty 
by a guest who had been called away. He knew 
the whole thing was an hallucination, a fancy that 
his sudden thought had conjured up. But the 
curious part of it was that the face of the young 
monk, who with elbows resting on the table was 
looking at him with such earnestness, was not the 
face of the monk in the picture with which he was 
familiar, the hero, the martyr, but the face of a 
timid youth. The hands were clasped, and the 
eyes that were fixed on Anthony seemed to be 
pleading with him. 

He could not remember what he had said. He 


ANTHONY JOHN 


252 

i 

did not think it was the speech he had intended. 
He had the feeling he was answering the question¬ 
ing eyes of the young monk still fixed upon him. 
But it seemed to have gone all right, though there 
had been no applause when he had sat down. In¬ 
stead, a little silence had followed; and when the 
conversation round the table was renewed it had 
been in a subdued tone, as though some new note 
had been struck. 

Foolish though it seemed, it was this slight 
episode that had finally decided him that he must 
speak with her this very night. Too long he had 
put it off, whispering to himself now one excuse, 
now another. It had come to him while he had 
been preparing his speech for the unveiling of the 
war memorial: How long was he going to play the 
coward? When was he going to answer the call of 
his King, his country? 

When had that call first come to him? What 
voice—what vision had first spoken to him? He 
tried to think. There had been no trumpet call. 
No pillar of light had flashed before his eyes. It 
had come to him in little whispers of the wind, in 
little pluckings at his sleeve. Some small wild 
creature’s cry of pain. The sorrow of a passing 
face. The story of a wrong done, when or where 



ANTHONY JOHN 253 

it did not matter. Always the darkness was full of 
reproachful eyes accusing him of delay. 

It seemed to him that he was standing beside God 
in some vast doorless chamber, listening to the fall¬ 
ing of the tears of the world—the tears of all the 
ages that were past, the tears of the ages yet to 
come; and God’s sad eyes were watching him. 

If he could take her with him. If only she 
would come with him. There had been a moment 
at the beginning of the war when it might have 
been: those days of terror when the boy lay 
wounded unto death; and he had heard her cry out 
in the night: “Oh, God, take all I have but that.” 
Had he urged her then? Honours, riches! In 
that moment she would have known their true value. 
But the child had lived, and all her desires were 
now for him. She would resent whatever might 
make to his detriment. No, he would have to go 
alone. 

How was he going to put it into words? How 
could he hurt her least, while at the same time 
leaving no opening for false hope? He had 
purposely avoided thinking it out. It would be 
useless coming to her with cut and dried phrases. 
He would not be laying down the law. He would 
be pleading for forgiveness, for understanding. 


254 


ANTHONY JOHN 


He could picture the bewilderment that would come 
into her eyes as slowly his meaning dawned upon 
her: giving place to anger, despair. It would 
seem to her that she had never known him, that she 
had been living with a strange man. Why had he 
not taken her into his confidence years ago, made 
her the sharer of his dreams—his visions? How 
did he know she would not have sympathized with 
him? It was his love for her that had made him 
false—or rather his love for himself. He had 
wanted to come to her always with gifts, so that she 
might be grateful to him, proud of him. Now it 
was too late. It would seem to her that all these 
years he had been living apart, her husband only in 
body. She would feel herself a woman scorned. 

He smiled to himself, recalling how at the begin¬ 
ning of the Great War, as they had named it, the 
hope had come to him that after all he might not 
have to drink this cup. God was going to do with¬ 
out man’s help. Out of one stupendous sacrifice of 
blood and tears the world was to be bom anew. 
Sin was to destroy her own children; man’s greed 
and hate was to be burned up in the fire man’s evil 
passions had kindled. It was a strange delusion. 
Others had shared it. With the bitter awakening a 
dumb apathy had seized him, paralysing his soul. 
Of what use was the struggle. The gibe was tme: 




ANTHONY JOHN 255 

“Mankind would always remain a race of low in¬ 
telligence and evil instincts.” Let it perish, the 
sooner the better. 

And then, gradually, out of his despair, had 
arisen in him a great pity for God. It startled him 
at first. It was so grotesque an idea. And yet it 
grew upon him. The mysterious warfare between 
Good and Evil. It shaped itself in his brain, a 
thing concrete, visible. The loneliness of God. 
He saw Him as a Leader betrayed, deserted; his 
followers fleeing from him, hastening to make their 
peace with evil. He must find his way to God’s 
side. God wanted him. 

It was no passing mood. The thought took 
possession of him. All other voices sounded to 
him faint and trivial. 

His sorrow was for her. If he could but have 
spared her. For himself he felt joy that the 
struggle was over, that he had conquered, that noth¬ 
ing now could turn him from his purpose. He 
would get rid of all his affairs—of everything, 
literally. Not for the sake of the poor. If all the 
riches of the world were gathered together and 
given to the poor it would be but a stirring of the 
waters, a moment’s shifting of the social land¬ 
marks. Greed and selfishness would shape them¬ 
selves anew. From time immemorial the rich had 


256 


ANTHONY JOHN 


flung money to the poor, and the poor had ever in¬ 
creased in numbers, had sunk ever poorer. Money 
was a dead thing. It carried with it the seeds of 
destruction. Love, service, were the only living 
gifts. It was for his own sake—to escape, in the 
words of Timothy, from many hurtful lusts, which 
drown men in destruction and perdiction, that he 
must flee from his great possessions. No man 
could possess money without loving money. Only 
in common poverty—in common contentment with 
having food and raiment could there be brother¬ 
hood, love. 

He had made his plans. He would rent a small 
house, next door to where his mother still lived in 
Bruton Square, and practise there as a solicitor. 
The old lady was still active and capable. If need 
be—if he had to go alone—she could keep house 
for him. He was keen on Bruton Square. It was 
where the mean part of the town began. It would 
not be too far for the poor to come to him. The 
little modest house would not frighten them with 
suggestion of charges beyond their means, of con¬ 
temptuous indifference to their unprofitable bits of 
business. He would be able to help them, to keep 
them from falling into the hands of charlatans. 
They would come to trust him in their troubles. 
He might often be able to serve as mediator, as 




ANTHONY JOHN 257 

peacemaker between them. It would be a legiti¬ 
mate way of earning his living. 

It was essential that he should earn his living. 
That seemed to him of tremendous importance. 
If the world were to he saved it must be saved by 
all men working together for God. That must be 
the dream, the goal. He wanted to tell men that 
the Christ-life could be lived not by the few but by 
all; not alone by celibates and mendicants—of 
what use would that be—but by men with wives 
and children. It must come to be the life of the 
street, the market-place, the home. 

If she would come with him, join her voice with 
his, tell the people that man and woman could live 
happily together without this luxury and ostenta¬ 
tion for which Youth daily sold its birthright of 
love and joy, condemned itself to frenzied toil and 
haunting fear; that life was not a thing of furni¬ 
ture and clothes, of many servants, of fine houses 
and rich foods; that a man and woman who had 
known these things could choose to give them up, 
find comfort and content without them; that having 
food and raiment there was no need of this savage 
struggling for more—this greed and covetousness 
that for so long had pierced the world with many 
sorrows. If only she would come with him. To¬ 
gether they might light a lamp. 



258 


ANTHONY JOHN 


How could he ask her? The mere physical dis¬ 
comforts and privations, it would not be the fear 
of these that would hold her back. Demand the 
heroic of her—call upon her, in the name of any 
cause worth fighting for, to face suffering, death 
itself, and she would put her hand in his and go 
with him gladly. She had envied Betty, going out 
alone to fight starvation and disease amid the ter¬ 
rors of a winter in the Russian steppes. 

“I’d have loved to be going with her,” she had 
told him. “It must be from my mother that it 
comes to me. Some strange thing happened to 
her when she was a girl. She would never tell me 
what, though I knew it had been her trouble all her 
life. And when she lay dying she drew me down 
to her, and whispered to me that in her youth God 
had called to her and she had not obeyed. It was 
dad and we children that had hindered her. She 
had married a husband so she could not come.” 

She had laughed and kissed him. He remem¬ 
bered the tears in her eyes and the little catch in 
her voice. 

But there was nothing heroic about this thing 
that he wanted to do. It was the littleness, the 
meanness of it that would freeze her sympathies. 
Her sense of humour would rise up against it. 
Was there no better way of serving Christ than by 



ANTHONY JOHN 


259 


setting up as a pettifogging solicitor in a little 
square of faded gentility. And a solicitor of all 
.professions! A calling so eminently suggestive of 
the Scribe and Pharisee. Was there not danger 
of the whole thing being smothered under laugh¬ 
ter? 

And why here in Millsborough where everybody 
knew him? Where they would be stared at, called 
after in the street, snapshotted and paragraphed in 
the local Press; where they would be the laughing 
stock of the whole town, a nuisance round the neck 
of all their friends and acquaintances. The boy’s 
career: he would be the butt of the messroom. 
Norah’s engagement: it would have to be broken 
off. What man wants to marry into a family of 
cranks? Could it serve Christ for His would-be 
followers to cover themselves with ridicule. 

It was just because his going on with his own 
business had seemed to him the simplest, plainest 
path before him that he had chosen it. He had 
thought at one time of asking Matthew Witlock to 
let him come as his assistant in the workshop. He 
had retained much of his old skill as a mechanic. 
With a little practice it would come back to him. 
He would have enjoyed the work: the swinging of 
the hammer, the flashing of the sparks, the har¬ 
mony of hand and brain. His desk had always 


260 


ANTHONY JOHN 


bored him. The idea had grown upon him. It 
would have been like going home. He would have 
met there the little impish lad who had once been 
himself. Old Wandering Peter would have sat 
cross-legged upon the bench and talked to him. 
He would have come across his father, pottering 
about among the shadows; would have joked with 
him. Strong kindly Matthew of the dreamy eyes 
would have been sweet, helpful company. To¬ 
gether they would have listened to the passing foot¬ 
steps. There, if anywhere, might have come the 
Master. 

It had cost him an effort to dismiss the desire. 
He so wanted to preach the practical, the rational. 
We could not all be blacksmiths. We could not all 
do big things, heroic things. But we could all work 
for God, wherever and whatever we happened to 
be; that was the idea he wanted to set going. 

He wanted to preach to men that the Christ-life 
was possible for all: for the shop-keeper, for the 
artisan, for the doctor, for the lawyer, for the 
labourer, for the business man. He wanted to tell 
the people that Christ had not to be sought for in 
any particular place, that he was here; that we had 
only to open the door and He would come to us just 
where we were. One went on with one’s work, 
whatever it was, the thing that lay nearest to one, 


ANTHONY JOHN 261 

the thing one could do best. We changed the 
Master not the work, took other wages. 

He wanted to tell it in Millsborough for the 
reason that it was the only place where he could be 
sure of being listened to. Nowhere else could he 
hope to attract the same attention. He wanted 
to attract attention—to advertise, if any cared 
to put it that way. It was the business man in him 
that had insisted upon Millsborough. In Mills¬ 
borough, for a time—for quite a long time—this 
thing would be the chief topic of conversation. 
Men would discuss it, argue around it, think about 
it when alone. 

In Millsborough he had influence. In Mills¬ 
borough, if anywhere, he might hope to find fol¬ 
lowers. For twenty years he had been held up to 
the youth of Millsborough as a shining example: 
the man who had climbed, the man who had “got 
on,” the man who had won all the rewards the devil 
promises to those who will fall down and worship 
him, wealth, honour, power—the kingdoms of the 
earth. He stood for the type of Millsborough’s 
hero: the clever man, the knowing man, the success¬ 
ful man; the man who always got the best of the 
bargain; the man who always came out on top; the 
man who whatever might happen to others always 
managed to fall on his feet. “Keep your eye on 




262 


ANTHONY JOHN 


Anthony Strong’nth’arm.” In Millsborough it had 
become a saying. The man to be in with, the man 
to put your money on, the man God always pros¬ 
pered. 

He could hear them—see their round, staring 
eyes. He could not help but grin as he thought of 
it. Anthony Strong’nth’arm declines a peerage. 
Anthony Strong’nth’arm resigns his chairmanship 
of this, that and the other most prosperous concern; 
his directorship in half a dozen high dividend-pay¬ 
ing companies; gets rid of his vast holdings in 
twenty sound profitable enterprises; gives up his 
great office in St. Aldys Close, furniture, fittings 
and goodwill all included; writes a courteous 
letter of farewell to all his wealthy clients; takes a 
seven-roomed house in Bruton Square, rent thirty- 
two pounds a year; puts up his plate on the door: 
64 Anthony John Strong’nth’arm, Solicitor. Also 
Commissioner for Oaths. Office hours, ten to 
four.” What’s the meaning of it? The man is 
not a fool. Has never, at any time, shown indica¬ 
tions of insanity. What’s he up to? What’s come 
into his head? If it’s God he is thinking of, what’s 
wrong with the church or the chapel, or even the 
Pope, if he must have a change? Does he want a 
religion all to himself? Is it the poor that are 
troubling him? He’d do better for them, going on 


ANTHONY JOHN 


263 


with his money-making, giving them ten—twenty, 
fifty per cent., if he liked, of his profits. What is 
the explanation? What does he say about it— 
Anthony Strong’nth’arm himself? 

They would have to listen to him. If only from 
curiosity they would hear him out to the end. It 
might be but a nine days’ wonder; the talk grow 
tiresome, the laughter die away. That was not his 
affair. He wanted to help. He was sure this was 
the best thing he could do. 

He had not noticed the door open. She was 
standing before him. She drew his face down to 
her and kissed him. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, “for one of the 
happiest days of my life.” 

He held her to him for a while without speaking. 
He could feel the beating of her heart. 

“There is something I want to tell you,” he said. 

She put a hand upon his lips. “I know,” she 
answered. “In three minutes time. Then you 
shall tell me.” 

They stood with their arms round one another 
till the old French clock upon the mantelpiece had 
softly chimed the twelve hours. Then she released 
him, and seating herself in her usual chair, looked 
at him and waited. 


CHAPTER XVIII 



E had not asked her for an answer. She 
had promised to think it out. She 
might wish to talk it over with Jim. 
She and Jim had always been very near to one an¬ 
other. And there were the children to be consulted. 
She was to be quite free to choose. Everything 
would be arranged according to her decision. He 
had said nothing to persuade her—unless he had 
hoped that by explaining to her his own reasons he 
might influence her,—and beyond a few questions 
she had remained a silent listener. It was shame¬ 
facedly, as one confessing a guilty secret, that he 
had told her. From the tones of his voice, the look 
in his eyes, she had read his unconscious pleading 
to her to come with him. But whether she went 
with him or stayed behind would make no differ¬ 
ence to his going. It was that had hardened her. 

To a certain extent she had been prepared. 
Ever since the child John’s death she had felt the 
change that was taking place in him. There was 
an Anthony she did not know, dimly associated in 
her mind with that lover of her dream who stand¬ 
ing by the latchet gate had beckoned to her, and 

264 





ANTHONY JOHN , 265 

from whom she had hidden herself, afraid. She 
had set herself to turn his thoughts aside towards 
social reform, philanthropy. It was with this idea 
she had urged him to throw himself into public af¬ 
fairs, to prepare for Parliament. She had hoped 
for that. There she could have helped him. It 
would have satisfied her own craving to be doing 
something herself. 

And then the war had engulfed them, obliterat¬ 
ing all other horizons: it had left her nothing but 
her animal emotions. Her boy’s life! She could 
think of nothing else. Norah was in France: and 
she also was in the danger zone. The need of work 
obsessed her. She had found a rambling old 
house, far away upon the moors, and had converted 
it into a convalescent hospital. 

Labour was scarce and the entire management 
had fallen upon her own shoulders. Anthony’s 
duties had confined him to Millsborough. For 
years they had seen one another only for a few 
hours at a time. There had been no opportunity 
for intimate talk. It was not until her return home 
to The Abbey that her fear had come back to her. 
There was no definable reason. It was as if it had 
always been there—a presence, waiting its time. 
One evening, walking in the garden, she had seen 
him standing there by the latchet gate, and had 



266 


ANTHONY JOHN 


crept back into the house. She had the feeling 
that it would be there, by the latchet gate, that he 
would tell her. So long as she could avoid meet¬ 
ing him there she could put it off, indefinitely. 
The surer she felt of it, the more important it 
seemed to her to put it off—for a little while 
longer: she could not explain to herself why. It 
was when, without speaking, he had pressed her to 
him so close that she had felt the pain in his body, 
that she knew the time had come for her to face it. 

What answer was she to make him? It seemed 
such a crazy idea. To give up The Abbey. To 
think of strangers living there. It had been the 
home of her people for five centuries. Their chil¬ 
dren had been born there. For twenty years they 
had worked there lovingly together to make it more 
beautiful. It would be like tearing oneself up by 
the roots. To turn one’s back upon the glorious 
moors—to go down into the grimy sordid town, to 
live in a little poky house with one servant; pre¬ 
suming the Higher Christianity permitted of even 
that. Yes, they would get themselves talked 
about: no doubt of that. 

To do her own shopping. She had noticed them 
—passing them by swiftly in her shining car—tired 
women, carrying large network bags bulging with 
parcels. Some of them rode bicycles. She found 


ANTHONY JOHN 267 

herself wondering abstractedly whether she would 
be able to afford a bicycle. She had learnt to ride 
a bicycle when a girl. But that was long ago. 
She wondered whether she would be able to pick it 
up again. She pictured herself bargaining out¬ 
side the butchers’ shops, examining doubtful look¬ 
ing chickens—when chickens were cheap. There 
was a particular test you had to apply. She would 
have to make enquiries. She could see the grin¬ 
ning faces of the tradesmen, hear their oily tongues 
of mock politeness. 

Her former friends and acquaintances—county 
folk who had motored in for a day’s shopping, the 
stout be-jewelled wives of the rich magnates and 
manufacturers of Millsborough. Poor ladies! how 
worried they would be, not knowing what to do, 
meeting her by chance in the street. She with her 
umbrella and her parcels. And their red-faced 
husbands who would squeeze her hand and try to 
say the right thing. There would be plenty of 
comedy—at first, anyhow. That was the trouble. 
Tragedy she could have faced. This was going 
to be farce. 

The dulness—the appalling dulness of it. The 
long evenings in the one small living room. She 
would have to learn sewing—make her own dresses, 
while Anthony read aloud to her. He read rather 



268 


ANTHONY JOHN 


well. Perhaps, by help of great economy in the 
housekeeping, they might be able to purchase a 
piano, on the hire system—or would it have to be 
a harmonium? 

She had risen. From the window, she could see 
the cloud of smoke beneath which the people of 
Millsborough moved and had their being. 

Why should it seem so impossible. Her pres¬ 
ent ordered existence, mapped out from year to 
year, calling for neither thought nor effort, admit¬ 
ting of neither hope nor fear, the sheltered life 
of a pampered child—had not that also its dul- 
ness, its monotony? Why did rich people rent 
saeters in Norway, live there for months at »a time 
on hunter’s fare, doing their own cooking and 
cleaning—welcome the perils and hardships of 
mountain climbing; of big game shooting; of trav¬ 
els into unknown lands; choose danger, privation 
and toil, and call it a “holiday”? Had not she her¬ 
self found the simple living and hard work of the 
hospital a welcome change from everlasting luxu¬ 
riousness? Would the Garden of Eden have been 
the ideal home for men and women with brains 
and hands? Might not earning one’s living by the 
sweat of one’s brow be better sport? 

Need those evenings after the day’s work was 
done be of necessity so deadly? Her great din- 




ANTHONY JOHN 269 

ners at The Abbey, with all their lights and lackeys, 
had they always been such feasts of intellectuality? 
Surely she had had social experience enough to 
teach her that brains were a thing apart from birth 
and breeding, that wit and wisdom were not the 
monopoly of the well-to-do. It came back to her, 
the memory of her girlhood’s days when they had 
lived in third-rate boarding-houses in Rome and 
Florence; rented small furnished appartements in 
French provincial towns; cheap lodgings in Dres¬ 
den and Hanover. There had been no lack of fun 
and laughter in those days. Those musical eve¬ 
nings to which each student brought his own beer, 
and was mightily careful to take back with him 
the empty bottles, for which otherwise ten pfennigs 
would be charged. How busy she and her mother 
had been beforehand, cutting the sandwiches, and 
how sparing of the butter! Some of the players 
had made world-famous names; and others had 
died or maybe still lived—unknown. One of them 
she had heard just recently, paying ten guineas for 
her box; but his music had sounded no sweeter than 
when she [had listened to it sitting beside Jim on 
the uncarpeted floor, there not being chairs enough 
to go round. Where had she heard better talk than 
from the men with shiny coat sleeves and frayed 
trousers who had come to sup with her father off 


270 


ANTHONY JOHN 


maccaroni and chianti at two lire the flask. There 
might be clever brilliant men and women even in 
Millsborough. So far as she could judge she had 
never succeeded in securing any of them for her 
great receptions at The Abbey. They might be 
less shy of dropping in at Bruton Square. 

It was what one felt, not what one had, that was 
the source of our pleasure. It was the school boy’s 
appetite, not a Rockefeller’s wealth that purchased 
the good dinner. The nursery filled with expen¬ 
sive toys: the healthy child had no need of them. 
It was the old rag doll, clutched tight to' our bosom 
that made the attic into heaven. It was astride on 
the wooden horse without a head that we shouted 
our loudest. We over-burdened life with empty 
show, turned man into a mannikin. We sacrificed 
the play to the scenery and dresses. Four walls 
and a passion were all that the poet demanded. 

Whence had come this idea that wealth brought 
happiness? Not from the rich. Surely they must 
have learnt better, by this time. 

It was not the enjoyable things of life that cost 
money. These acres of gardens where one never 
got away from one’s own gardeners! What better 
were they than a public park? It was in the hid¬ 
den corner we had planted and tended ourselves— 
where we knew and loved each flower, where each 



ANTHONY JOHN 271 

whispering tree was a comrade that we met God 
in the evening. It was the pleasant living room, 
where each familiar piece of furniture smiled a 
welcome to us when we entered, that was home. 
Through half-a-dozen “reception rooms,” we wan¬ 
dered, a stranger. The millionaire, who, reckon¬ 
ing interest at five per cent., paid ten thousand a 
year to possess an old master—how often really 
did he look at it? What greater artistic enjoyment 
did he get out of it than from looking at it in a 
public gallery? The joy of possession, it was the 
joy of the miser, of the dog in the manger. Were 
the silver birches in the moonlight more beautiful 
because we owned the freehold of the hill? 

She remembered her walking tours with Jim. 
Their packs upon their backs, and the open road 
before them. The evening meal at the wayside 
Inn, and the sweet sleep between coarse sheets. 
She had never cared for travel since then. It had 
always been such a business: the luggage and the 
crowd, and the general hullaballoo. 

What would the children say? Well, they could 
not preach, either of them: there was that consola¬ 
tion. The boy, at the beginning of the war, and 
without saying a word to either of them, had thrown 
up everything, had gone out as a common soldier 
—he had been so fearful they might try to stop 


272 


ANTHONY JOHN 


him—facing death for an ideal. She certainly 
was not going to be afraid of anything he could say, 
after that. 

Norah’s armour would prove even yet more vul¬ 
nerable. Norah, a young lady brought up amid 
all the traditions of respectability, had dared even 
ridicule; had committed worse than crimes—vul¬ 
garities. A militant suffragette reproving fanati¬ 
cism need not be listened to attentively. 

But this case she was thinking of was exceptional. 
Whatever Anthony and she might choose to do 
with the remainder of their lives need not affect 
their children. Norah and Jim would be free 
to choose for themselves. But the young mother 
faced with the problem of her children’s future? 
Ten years ago, what answer would she herself 
have made? 

The argument took hold of her. She found her¬ 
self working it out not as a personal concern, but in 
terms of the community. Was it necessary to be 
rich that one’s children should be happy? Child¬ 
hood would answer “no.” It is not little Lord 
Fauntleroy who clamours for the velvet suit and 
the lace collar. It is not Princess Goldenlocks who 
would keep close barred the ivory gate that leads 
into the wood. Childhood has no use for riches. 
Childhood’s joys are cheap enough. Youth’s 


ANTHONY JOHN 273 

pleasures can be purchased for little more than 
health and comradeship. The cricket bat, the 
tennis racket, the push bike, the leaky boat that one 
bought for a song and had the fun of patching up 
and making good; even that crown of the young 
world’s desire, the motor-cycle itself—these and 
their kindred were not the things for which one 
need to sell one’s soul. Education depended upon 
the scholar not the school. Was the future welfare 
of our children helped by our being rich? or 
hindered? 

Suppose we brought up our children not to be¬ 
lieve in riches, not to be afraid of poverty: not to 
be afraid of love in a six-roomed house, not to 
believe that they were bound to be just twice as 
happy in a house containing twelve, and thereby 
save themselves the fret and frenzy of trying to get 
there: the bitterness and heart break of those who 
never reached it. The love of money, the belief in 
money, was it not the root of nine-tenths of the 
world’s sorrow? Suppose one taught one’s chil¬ 
dren not to fall down and worship it, not to sacrifice 
to it their youth and health and joy. Might they 
not be better off—in a quite material way? 

It occurred to her suddenly that she had not as 
yet thought about it from the religious point of 
of view. She laughed. It had always been said 


274 


ANTHONY JOHN 


that it was woman who was the practical. It was 
man, was the dreamer. 

But was she not right? Had that not been the 
whole trouble: that we had drawn a dividing line 
between our religion and our life, rendering our 
actions unto Caesar, and only our lips unto God? 
Christianity was Common Sense in the highest— 
was sheer Worldly Wisdom. The proof was star¬ 
ing her in the face. From the bay of the deep 
window, looking eastward, she could see it stand¬ 
ing out against the flame-lit sky, the great grey 
Cross with round its base the young men’s names 
in golden letters. 

The one thing man did well—make war. Man’s 
one success—the fighting machine. The one in¬ 
stitution man had built up that had stood the test 
of time. The one thing man had made perfect 
—War. 

The one thing to which man had applied the 
principles pf Christianity. Above all things re¬ 
quired of the soldier was self-forgetfulness, self- 
sacrifice. The place of suffering became the place 
of honour. The forlorn hope a privilege to be 
contended for. To the soldier, alone among men, 
love thy neighbour as thyself—nay, better than thy¬ 
self—was inculcated not as a meaningless formula, 
but as a sacred duty necessary to the very exist- 



ANTHONY JOHN 275 

ence of the Regiment. When war broke out in a 
land, the teachings of Christ were immediately 
recognized to be the pnly sensible guide to con¬ 
duct. At the time, Anthony’s suggestion had 
seemed monstrous to her; that he should ask her 
to give up riches, accept poverty, that he should 
put a vague impersonal love of humanity above 
his natural affection for her children and herself! 
But if it had been England and not God that he 
had been thinking of—if, at any moment during 
the war, it had seemed to him that the welfare of 
England demanded this, or even greater sacrifice, 
she would have approved. The very people whose 
ridicule she was now dreading would have ap¬ 
plauded. Who had suggested to the young re¬ 
cruit that he should think of his wife and children 
before his country, that his first duty was to pro¬ 
vide for them, to see to it that they had their com¬ 
forts, their luxuries: and then—and not till then— 
to think of England? She had regarded his deter¬ 
mination to go down into the smoky dismal town, 
to live his life there among common people, as 
foolish, fantastic. He could have helped the poor 
of Millsborough better by keeping his possessions, 
showering down upon them benefits and blessings. 
He could have been of more help to God, power¬ 
ful and rich, a leader among men. As a strug- 



276 ANTHONY JOHN 

gling solicitor in Bruton Square of what use could 
he be? 

Had she thought like that, during the war, of 
the men who had given money but who had shirked 
the mud and blood of the trenches—of the shouters 
who had pointed out to others the gate of service? 

Neither rich nor poor, neither great nor simple 
—only comrades. Would it ever be won, the war 
to end war—man’s victory over himself. 

The pall of smoke above the distant town had 
merged into the night. In its place there gleamed 
a dull red glow, as of a pillar of fire. 

She turned and faced herself in the great Cheval 
glass with its frame of gilded cupids. She was 
still young—in the fulness of her life and beauty; 
the years with their promise of power and pleasure 
still opening out before her. 

And suddenly it came to her that this was the 
Great Adventure of the World, calling to the brave 
and hopeful to follow, heedless, where God’s 
trumpet led. Somewhere—perhaps near, perhaps 
far—there lay the Promised Land. It might be 
theirs’ to find it—at least to see it from afar. If 
not—! Their feet should help to mark the road. 

Yes, she too would give up her possessions; put 
fear behind her. Together, hand in hand, they 
would go forward, joyously. 

6 56 


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